


MALL AU

by crumbling



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Jihoon being a self-destructive fuck, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-02 23:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 64,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5268311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crumbling/pseuds/crumbling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone in Seventeen works at the same mall. And it gets worse.</p>
<p>[Good Riddance by Green Day Playing in the Distance]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. mixed tape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chan makes some new friends.

****  
  
  
  
Back when Vernon first got hired at Journey’s, when his name tag was still white around the edges, fresh from the label maker (purchased by management at Office Depot, probably), he honestly liked the job. Like may be a strong word. He tolerated unpacking shoes and producing so-and-so brand, such-and-such style, size whatever from the freezing back room and even helping customers. In a place like a shoe store, there weren’t really regular customers, so everything was new. Until he started noticing everything wrong with the customer service industry.  
  
For one thing, customers don’t care what time the store closes. They care about trying on shoes and trying Vernon’s patience. Or maybe not the latter. It doesn’t matter. They also don’t care about property. They will trash the entire Vans display and then the very next soccer mom to walk into the store with her ungrateful offspring will write a Yelp! review about what a mess the store is. But what really compels Vernon to clock out early and march his angry ass into Pac Sun to take a fifteen on the fitting room floor is the fact that everyone is plain stupid. Legitimately fucking stupid. His coworkers, store patrons, everyone.

On this particular day, Vernon nearly runs Minghao over on his mad dash for fitting room no. 3, the one with the flickering light.

“Rough day?” Minghao asks, narrowly avoiding slamming his hip into a display table.

Vernon replies with a low pitched whine and pulls the plywood door shut with a click.

“Okay, cool off. I’m on the floor today if you want to complain about stuff.”

Xu Minghao is the definition of patience. Most days Vernon thinks that he should apply for saint-ship so he could get some honor for the kind of bullshit he just internalizes on the regular. Customers are one thing, but having to take care of that kid in your history class that you never even really talked to before is another.

Vernon pushes the door open and there’s a girl standing outside with an armful of jeans. She gives him a dirty look when he walks out empty handed and wearing the employee name tag of another store and he rolls his eyes once he hears the door close again. God damn customers and their royal complexes and their… their fucking jeans.

Speaking of which, Minghao is reorganizing a table that is destroyed. It looks like a small tornado came for that table, it’s devastating at best. Maybe his pulverized Vans display isn’t that bad. It’s not like he has to refold shoes.

“Cool pants.”

Minghao looks down at his own pants, then at the ruins in front of him. “Thanks. Are you already done for the day?”

Vernon offers a dry, incredulous laugh. “‘Already,’ he says.”

“How long are you gonna stay for?”  
  
It’s Wednesday and Vernon has homework to do. Something about a pissed off art student that decided he should just wipe out everyone he deemed inferior. Pretty messed up. But Wednesday only comes once a week, and it’s the one day out of the week that everyone that works at the mall is there.  
  
  


Imagine a fishbone. Like the cartoonish ones on the sides of the cat food bowls they sell at target for $4.99 plus tax, with the fish skull at one end and the fish tail at the other.

The eye of the fish is FYE, For Your Entertainment, or as Seungcheol calls it, Fuck Your Everything. He has the pleasure of fixing displays of overpriced headphones and putting the safety covers back on the pornos after curious, unsupervised children want to know what goes on behind the frosted plastic. He’s basically living the dream. The fish’s mouth is Spencer’s, which you may think is closed, but it’s not. Seungcheol sometimes goes over there on his lunchbreak to turn on all the sex toys and give Wonwoo a reason to stub out a Newport 100 on his bare skin. Because guess who gets to turn them all back off and shoulder the embarrassment of hyperrealistic plastic dicks slithering out of his hands. It’s Wonwoo.

At the opposite end of the store, in one of the fish’s tail ‘halves,’ is the jeweler, the one that acts as the precursor to many kisses, or so their shitty advertisements suggest. No one knows how Jeonghan managed to score a job that paid commission without any prior work experience, but everyone’s money is on his pretty hair and inexplicable effect he has on middle aged managers with pearl earrings. The other half of the fish’s tail is a bank, one of the nice ones with that hotel lobby meets weird stuffy people living room feel to it. It’s an interesting place because it serves so many functions. People can deposit and withdraw funds, take out loans they’ll die to repay, and Jihoon’s soul can die in the comfort of one of five leather spinny chairs. It’s quite the dynamic place.

Between the rib bones, other stores sit miserably side by side, crammed in together like puzzle pieces that don’t exactly match up. At the end near the gills is Journey’s with its black ceilings and dusty exposed pipes. Across from it is Pac Sun, catering to high schoolers and middle aged people who got lost on the way to Nordstrom and decided to have a midlife crisis in a teenager store.

From the registers on the far left of the counter, Vernon can see Seungkwan fully engaged with his polite persona. No one actually likes going in to visit Seungkwan because Abercrombie and Fitch always smells like, well, Abercrombie and Fitch. And subsequently, so does Seungkwan. But the discount is nice and he doesn’t mind the fact that he looks like an utter tool in polos even though he should. Across from Abercrombie, the Game Stop sign has seen better days, and instead of reading ‘Game Stop,’ it says ‘Game top,’ which Mingyu found hilarious enough that he posted it to his snap story and didn’t shut up about it for a week. The place is still set up like an off-brand version of the game section at Walmart, with consoles plugged in and stocked with the newest games, temping Mingyu with Legend of Zelda music constantly blaring from the speakers.

The contrary to Seungkwan’s impossible-to-wash-off junior varsity smell is Bath and Body works. Sometimes Vernon doesn’t feel like spending a whole ten minutes showering before work and walks in to bug Jisoo for a few minutes and sprays himself with the testers. So far he’s used Japanese Cherry Blossom, Pink Chiffon (not a personal favorite), Lavender Vanilla, and Windex that one time he wasn’t paying attention. The unfortunate thing about working at Bath and Body Works, aside from the idea of working there at all, is the lack of variation in regular customers. It’s always the homemakers that absolutely need the Kitchen Lemon foaming hand soap that then have a three-year-old-in-Toys’R’Us level meltdown when said handsoap is out of stock. You’d think Jisoo had punched them in the face and insulted their Eddie Bauer puffer vests, not suggested they try one of the seasonal soaps instead.

 

 

 

Luckily, Jisoo excels at keeping his cool. He’s like a more upbeat and charming version of Minghao. Like when Seungkwan walks into the bathroom to find Jisoo washing his shirt in the sink. Apparently an irate customer broke a shelf, sending various body splashes everywhere, but primarily on Jisoo’s ironed shirt and apron.

“Funny seeing you here,” Seungkwan says stiffly. “Even more so without a shirt. You okay?”

Jisoo looks up and grins. “Yeah, I just smell like Eucalyptus Spearmint is all.”

“I was gonna say, you smell like a throat lozenge.”

“Ah, speaking of throat lozenges—“

“What you’re about to say is going to have no relevance to throat lozenges, is it?”

Jisoo wrings out his shirt defeatedly. “I was going to ask what we’re all doing after work today.”

“Not sure. We’re already banned from Target, we’re bound to get banned from anywhere else we go. It’s either we sit at the park and do nothing but freeze our asses off or just all go home.”

Wonwoo walks out of the first stall. “Let’s go to the grocery store and push you in the cart like the big baby you are.”

Seungkwan jumps. “What are you doing in here?”

“Don’t you ever just go to the bathroom in the middle of a shift because you can’t handle customers anymore?”

Seungcheol walks out of the last stall. “Hey, that’s what I was just doing!”

Seungkwan turns to Jisoo. “Did you know they were here this whole time?”

“Yeah, they’re always here at 3 on Wednesdays.”

“So, grocery store?” Seungcheol asks, playing with the automated paper towel dispenser.

They shrug. “Honestly, it’s not the lamest thing we’ve done, and it won’t be the last stupid thing we do,” Seungkwan says. “Like, we went to the museum on free museum day and almost got Jihoon kidnapped.”

Jisoo runs his his shirt under the air dryer. “That was fun until it took five of us to get Soonyoung to put the butterflies down and leave the exhibit before security would.”

“What are you talking about?” Wonwoo rubs generic foaming handsoap on Seungcheol’s face. “That was the best part.”

 

 

 

Picture that fishbone again. Continue down between the ribs, and pretend that the fish had eaten another smaller fish. This is Barnes and Noble, boasting rib-bone shelves and rows of books, teeming with all different kinds of people. Walking through, you may notice Junhui with his handwritten ID badge shelving books, but you might not. He’s one of those people that blend in so well to their workplace that you don’t realize he isn’t part of the store. In the smaller fish’s tail is the ever-loved Starbucks, where the coffee is okay at best, and Soonyoung is always scalding some part of his body with hot milk. Starbucks conveniently closes before everything else in the store, and some nights when he doesn’t have shit else to do, Soonyoung will follow Junhui around the store with the latest issue of Shounen Jump and complain about the ending of Naruto.

Or at least that’s what’s happening when everyone else congregates into the book store.

“What’s up book losers, we’re going to the grocery store.” Seungkwan says a little too loudly. An old lady sitting at one of the Starbucks tables looks up at him from her trashy romance novel.

“The grocery store,” Junhui repeats. “Is that what it’s come to?”

“That’s what I said,” Jeonghan sighs.

“Shut up,” Seungkwan says, pushing his shoulder. “You got any better ideas?”

“No, but like. The grocery store?”

“It’s gonna be great. Hey, where’s Vernon?”

He had run across the mall parking lot to alert Seokmin of the plan. Outside of the fish mall entirely is one of those indie pet stores. Seungkwan refers to it as Whole Foods for animals. The clientele ranges from crazy cat ladies to crazy lizard ladies and the in-between is just as crazy, but Seokmin is just as enthusiastic about Mr. Puss Puss as the mad woman going on about her cat.

He looks up when the someone-just-entered-the-store bell rings. Vernon gives him a look.

“There any special reason you have a snake around your neck?” he asks suspiciously.

“Oh, yeah, this is a ball python. I’m hand-taming him. His name is Toes, would you like to hold him?”

“No thanks, I’m more of a cat person.”

“His name is Toes because snakes don’t have—“

“I got it, Seokmin, that’s clever. We’re all going to the grocery store after work and you’re coming.”

Seokmin adjusts his reptile. “Oh, that sounds like fun, there’s so many things inside grocery stores.”

“See, if Jeonghan would just adopt this attitude…”

“Aw, it’s okay. He’s just used to polishing silver and selling engagement rings, it’s not his fault that frozen goods don’t appeal to him.”

Vernon narrows his eyes and looks like he’s about to say something but he doesn’t. “Okay, well I’m gonna go… back to the mall. Meet us at the table?”

Seokmin smiles and nods, waving him off with one hand and patting the snake with the other. Gross. Vernon makes a mental note to beg Jisoo for one of his mini hand sanitizers. But not the lavender one because it starts to smell like vomit after a few hours.

 

 

 

After a solid ten minutes of just dealing with the vibrating, Seungkwan speaks up. “Soonyoung, are you aware that you are shaking this whole table?” he asks, twirling a fry between his fingers.

Soonyoung rubs his cheeks and takes an exaggerated breath. “Sorry. I drank a double dead eye in the middle of my shift.”

Seungcheol sets his coke down. “And that is?”

“’A coffee with six shots of espresso. There are colors in my field of vision when you talk and they change with the tone of your voice.”

Seungcheol rubs his temples. “Christ, Soonyoung, how are you not in the emergency room right now?”

“I don’t know. It’s cool though, I mean, are you really alive if you don’t feel like you’re going to die sometimes?”

They give him strange looks, but it’s not like it’s the weirdest thing he’s ever said. There was that time in sophomore biology when he asked the teacher, “How cool would it be if when you cut your hair it smelled like cut grass?” It gives some insight as to why he spent so much time shoved in his locker in middle school.

But now that the oldest have graduated, Soonyoung included, a sense of freedom has been returned. He has the liberty of writing couplets on drinks and taking in enough caffeine to drop Mick Jagger in one sitting, and as far as he’s concerned, that’s just gotta be what adult life is all about.

 

 

 

Mildly amused by a laughably huge group of people walking in through the automatic doors, an employee with poorly cut hair is restocking paper bags at the end of a register. He watches them in their odd fashion take three carts, and then watches as the tallest manhandles the shortest into one of them.

He fixes his name plate (‘Chan’) and smiles politely and asks, “Paper or plastic?”

It isn’t until nearly an hour later that the massive group comes back up with boxes of sugary cereal and god knows what else. Immediately after paying, they walk out slapping each other and attempting to throw Skittles into each other’s mouths.

The last one out calls over his shoulder, “Thanks man!” and they’re back out the sliding doors. The rest of the shift is nothing special.

 

 

 

When Chan punches out and takes off his stupid bow tie, the group is sitting at the farthest end of the parking lot, all sixty-ish of them. One of them waves and stands up. “Bag boy!” he screams. Another yanks him by the hood and tells him to shut up, so help me god, Boo Seungkwan. And now he’s embarrassed, but to get to his bike, he’s going to have to walk past them

“Hey.” He looks over and one of the boys, the one with curly brown-black hair, is looking at him with his hand shoved into a box of Frosted Flakes.

“Hm?”

“I think we go to the same high school. Are you in Math Stats?”

“Yeah, I’m also in hell.”

He laughs and yanks his hand out of the box to clap stupidly. “Hey, you wanna hang out with us? There’s already like twenty people here.”

Chan surveys the bunch. They’re all looking at him and it’s like reading his essay for the class all over again. “I don’t know, I have homework.”

Frosted Flakes snorts. “So do we. Now sit.”

Presumably the oldest stands up and clears his throat. “Role call!” he announces, and they all stop eating to face him.

Names rattle off (Jeonghan Jisoo Junhui Soonyoung Wonwoo Jihoon Seokmin Mingyu Minghao Seungkwan Vernon) and it’s way too much information to take in, but he waves to each of them meekly anyway. “And I’m Seungcheol. You are?”

Someone throws an oreo at him. “For fuck’s sake, dude, he’s wearing a name tag.”

 

 

 

Now picture a school of fish, but one of all different colors and sizes. Imagine the way they all move in a single formation, like one larger fish. It takes a while to identify each fish, each personality, each shade of blue or orange, but eventually you learn.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to mall au 101 here is your syllabus


	2. thanks for nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seungcheol is getting grey hair, Soonyoung is lovesick, and Mingyu is pretty sure impersonating Santa is grounds for conviction.

"Shall we go around the table and say what we’re thankful for?”

 

Wonwoo gives Seungcheol the You Are The Stupidest Person Alive And I’m Dating Mingyu Look and glances at Vernon, who’s been dicking around with his phone for the last fifteen minutes. “Are we going to make handprint turkeys out of craft paint next?”

 

Chan pretends he totally did not want to talk about what he’s thankful for. Honestly, there’s a lot of things. Before he started hanging out with this group, he was kind of a loner. The kids in his grade thought he was a spazz or an oddball and ignored him most of the time, and when they did acknowledge his existence, it was to remind him that he was different and didn’t fit in. But next to people like Soonyoung and Seokmin, he started to look pretty tame.

 

Seungcheol crooks an eyebrow. “It’s a stupid enough idea that it got you out of whatever gross wet daydream you were having.”

 

“Rude. I was thinking about food. Which isn’t that far off, but I do not ever mix food and sex. I’m not a fucking animal.”

 

“Speaking of animals,” Seokmin interrupts. “I’m thankful for kittens. They’re soft and small and make cute little baby cat noises. When you hold them close to your heart their purring enters your soul.”

 

Seungcheol’s left eye twitches a little, but he’ll take it. “Thank you, Seokmin. What about everyone else? What are you all thankful for? What about you, Jihoon?”

 

“I’m thankful for the sweet and unavoidable kiss of death,” Jihoon says flatly, head propped up on his palm. “I’m thankful that the bank is closed on Thanksgiving so that I don’t have to tell another family man that his house is being foreclosed on, and that I won’t have to deal with any Black Friday specials.”

 

Vernon slams his hand on the table. “Oh fuck, why did you have to remind me that Black Friday is not just a thing, but a thing I have to participate in?”

 

“Oh, dude, I almost forgot about Journeys’ Black Friday sale. I need new Sk8-His, mine are just about ready to die.”

 

Vernon throws Seungkwan a venomous glare and snarls like a vicious animal. “Sure hope you’re about ready to die.”

 

Mingyu’s arm shoots up. “Oooh, I know what I’m thankful for.”

 

Wonwoo pinches the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t say Fallout 4.”

 

“I’m thankful for Fallout 4 and the sweet discount I got on my preorder thanks to my employment at Game Top.”

 

“They really gotta fix that sign eventually,” Seungkwan mutters.

 

“No way, man. Game Top is a way cooler name.”

 

“Game Top sounds like Spencers and Radio Shack had a terrifying gay baby.”

 

“Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?”

 

Seungcheol tries to segue things back into order, or at least what could be considered order for them. “Hey, hey. Let’s hear what Minghao is thankful for.”

 

Aforementioned boy is seated at such a far end of the table that at just the right angle, the one behind Mingyu’s massive melon head, one would easily miss him. He points to his chest, questioning, and Vernon nods. “Just go along with it man, or else it’ll be the Walkie Talkies all over again.”

 

 

 

 

The great Walkie Talkie incident took place the year before, when doing mark-downs in the electronics section, Seungcheol discovered the last two sets of Walkie Talkies, probably in existence. He made the wise decision in buying them, and dispersed them at ye old food court table and pitched the idea of making up cool code names, and as per usual, it was a disaster. Week one’s code names would be breakfast food related, and it was all fun and games until Jihoon was dubbed Shortstack and all hell broke loose.

 

They promptly changed his name to something innocuous and ironic like Cheerios, and that was the end of that. Until the Fairytale theme reared its ugly head and Jeonghan wanted to be called Sleeping Beauty even when the Walkie Talkies weren’t in use.

 

It didn’t take long for Wonwoo’s patience threshold to be reached, and he declared a change in name themes.

 

“And just what do you suggest we switch over to now?” Seungcheol asked, a little bit peeved because he was really digging the code name Big Bad Wolf.

 

“Captain Hook to Wolfie, Ten-Four. Animals,” Wonwoo answered. “I wanna be the Jackal.”

 

“You want us to call you Jackal?”

 

“No, Seungcheol. The Jackal.”

 

“Hey, use the code name!”

 

 

 

 

After recovering from a 1997 nightmare of technological proportions, Minghao straightens up his back and purses his lips, clearly trying to stall until Seuncheol picked another victim. However, twelve sets of eyes on you can make you crack. “Uh, I’m thankful for the table.”

 

“The table,” Seungkwan utters in disbelief.

 

“Yeah, it’s a nice table. It fits all of us and it’s where we’ve always come together to talk about stuff.”

 

Seungkwan wraps an arm around his neck and strokes his face. “How sweet is he? Precious little… baby child.”

 

“Seungkwan, let go of him. Anyways, important business at hand. What the hell are you people thankful for?”

 

Wonwoo rolls his eyes and contemplates knocking over his Americano just to shut him the hell up about god damn Thanksgiving. “Isn’t Thanksgiving for people who are thankful?”

 

Seuncheol looks him over and frowns. “Are you not thankful, Wonwoo?”

 

“Oh, no, this is not going to get feely and weird and emotional. No.”

 

“Then why are you antagonizing this discussion?”

 

“Because it’s stupid?”

 

“You know,” Jisoo begins, twirling a straw around in his iced Passion Tango. “You’re really hostile lately. Any reason for that?”

 

“Am I hostile? Or are you just sheltered by your fruit-scented, apron-wearing heaven job?”

 

Jisoo’s expression shifts. “I spent all of last Wednesday smelling like an unwrapped Ricola. You’re hostile.”

 

“Hey, are we still doing Secret Santa?” Seungkwan asks, not to derail the fight train, but because he hasn't been listening for the last five minutes.

 

“I just hope I don’t get Jihoon again,” Mingyu sighs. “It’s really hard to find those things you use to take off security tags and I’m pretty sure my name’s on a list somewhere for trying to find one.”

 

 

 

 

 

Last Christmas, Soonyoung picked Junhui’s name from the sacred snapback of Christmas present, and had spent a solid week analyzing him to see what he’d want. It was difficult, because he didn’t really do much other than work and go to school, and it wasn’t like they had any classes together. It was borderline stalking to be fair, but Soonyoung justified it on the basis that if he got a bad gift, it would totally ruin whatever it was between them. If there was anything.

 

Through extensive research, Soonyoung discovered that Junhui was a history buff, always reading some war novel. But then he realized he was just doing a research paper about the second world war, and had to return Slaughterhouse Five three days before Christmas and without him seeing.

 

Somewhere between creeping through Barnes and Noble with a fashion magazine covering his face (so as not to tip him off, of course) and developing something of a case study on the ever mysterious Junhui, Soonyoung realized he was catching the dreaded feelings. He was supposed to figure out the author of the books Junhui would carry around in school, but Soonyoung just paid attention to the way he’d awkwardly wave at him when he caught him squinting at the book’s spine. He’d always have to spin on his heels and hightail it away before the blood could rush to his face.

 

“So how’s the gift hunt going?” Seokmin asked, feeding a sunflower seed to the rat on his shoulder.

 

Soonyoung pounded his forehead against a wooden shelf.

 

“So not good, I take it?”

 

From atop a stack of dog food bags, Wonwoo snorted. “It’s because someone’s taking this Santa business straight to Valentine’s Day.”

 

“I am not,” Soonyoung defended, straightening the row of dog treats he disturbed. “I just don’t really know him that well, and I don’t want to be the only person that takes the Vernon route and just buys a giftcard. Like, besides Vernon.”

 

“I take offense to that,” Vernon said, appearing from behind a shelf holding a rabbit.

 

Seokmin startled, dropping sunflower seeds all over the floor. “Where did you get that?”

 

“A cage.”

 

“Alright, fair. Just don’t drop him.”

 

“‘Kay. Anyways, I think giftcards are just always a good way to go. Especially if you’re like Mingyu and are the worst gift giver.”

 

Soonyoung shuddered. At least he’s not Mingyu, who bought Seungcheol a subscription to Cat Fancy the year before. Or he’d like to think he’s better at choosing gifts than Mingyu. I mean, he did stalk Junhui for going on eight days all in an effort to pick out a gift that wasn’t awful.

 

“And if you don’t know how Junhui feels about you, right, Soonyoung?” Wonwoo stood and put a cold hand on his shoulder.

 

“I came here to talk to Seokmin, not to have you Freud my Holiday Cheer,” Soonyoung said bitterly.

 

“Whatever you say, buddy.”

 

“Oooh, you know,” Seokmin began, settling the rat back in its tank. “Jun is a bit like a cat. Maybe he’ll gift you a dead mouse in return?”

 

“Do you hear any of the words that come out of your mouth or do you just open it and wait for the noise to stop?” Wonwoo asked.

 

 

 

 

 

“So are you, uh, doing anything over the Thanksgiving break?” Soonyoung asks, stealthily looking over this month’s issue of Shoujo Beat.

 

Junhui, not looking away from the boxes of Christmas cookie cookbooks he’s shelving, just shrugs. “Not really. My family’s not from around here, so they don’t really do that.”

 

Silence wedges back between them and Soonyoung regrets having asked anything related to the holidays at all.

 

“But what about you?” Soonyoung almost knocks over the media stand. “Are you doing anything?”

 

“Ah, no,” he answers, reorganizing the different magazines the way he’s seen Junhui do a million times before closing time. “My dad has to work, so it’s just gonna be me.”

 

“That’s sad. From what I gather, no one should be alone on Thanksgiving.”

 

“It’s just another day, though. I think the true meaning should be carried out every day.”

 

Junhui chuckles. “You’re a sap. You wanna be alone on Thanksgiving with me? My parents are gonna be busy with my genius little brother and if I have to sit through another piano recital I’m gonna commit.”

 

Soonyoung is definitely going to die. He should not have slammed a venti coffee before this. “Uh, are you sure?”

 

“Oh, wait no, I just remembered that I have to—yes, I’m sure.”

 

Yeah, he’s definitely going to die. He’s going to die and then haunt Wonwoo for the rest of his life because he’s probably the one who put Jun up to this.

 

 

 

 

 

iMessage (1) 

Wonwoo: IMG_3829.jpg

 

iMessage (2)

Soonyoung: i hate you so much

Soonyoung: why does spencers even sell cards like that

 

iMessage (1)

Wonwoo: bc god is real and he loves me

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was tellin myself i was gonna write a meanie chapter bc everyone loves meanie but i was feeling this pairing no one but me and my best friend ships. so i did it. figh t me
> 
> ALSO!!!!!!! thank you for all the kudos and hits so far... i'm gonna cry and then die / w \


	3. i'm sorry | jihan part i.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> abstract
> 
> in this chapter we will delve into the magic of jihan, accompanied by the rest of svt. thank you. that is all.  
> key words: jihan, hell, dying (but not literally)
> 
> or:
> 
> Chan has a lot of questions, Wonwoo has a lot of answers, and Jihoon has a lot of pent up rage.

 

 

There’s the sound of glass shattering, and then silence. Absolutely stiff, uncomfortable, moment-before-you-need-to-cough silence.

 

“He dropped the biscottis,” Junhui whispers grimly.

 

Seungkwan slams his fist on the table and Vernon throws his head back and cackles. Unbeknownst to Chan, who sits at the end of the table with a hot chocolate that is slowly going cold between his hands, Seungkwan and Vernon are terrible friends. Not terrible in the way that their jokes get too personal, or they’ll take your clothes when you make the impulsive decision to go streaking, but every time Soonyoung works, and they have the honor of observing him in his natural habitat, they place bets on what will slip out of his butter fingers next.

 

Today, it’s the biscottis. Maybe tomorrow it’ll be another tin of loose tea.

 

Seungkwan pays up, five crumpled dollar bills, whilst one of Soonyoung’s coworkers, probably someone that’s been stuck at Starbucks for way too long, hovers over him with a broom. For all that everyone loves Soonyoung, sometimes you have to make a game out of his fuck ups or you start to feel too bad for him.

 

Or so Vernon explains when he notices Chan giving him a vindictive look as he folded the singles and slid them into his pocket. “It doesn’t even cost him anything, it’s Seungkwan’s money,” he justifies cooly. “All he has to do is keep on… keeping on, I guess.”

 

“At this rate, Soonyoung’s lack of hand-eye-coordination is going to pay your college tuition,” Jeonghan says, shaking his head.

 

Jisoo’s hand pokes his knee under the table. If Chan had pushed his chair in, he wouldn’t have noticed.

 

“I feel like it’s my obligation as his sort-of-but-not-coworker that you gamble on his work errors,” Junhui says, throwing glances at Vernon, who’s still feeling lucky and watching Soonyoung fumble with the dustpan behind the counter. “But at the same time, I think it would crush him.”

 

Mingyu slaps him on the back and shakes his head. “Ah, be real, it’s Soonyoung. You couldn’t crush his spirit with like. Something that’s really heavy.”

 

Jihoon opens his mouth, to say something assholeish probably, and Wonwoo kicks him under the table.

 

“Speaking of heavy,” Jisoo starts, reaching into the bag hanging from his chair. Seungkwan lets his eyes roll into the back of his head and gives Vernon a knowing glance.

 

“We should start betting on the fact that you don’t know how to use figures of speech.”

 

“On a scale of one to ten, that’s a great idea. But anyways. Do you guys want to smell the new seasonal line? They’re supposed to smell like uh, pie crust, autumn leaves, and Halloween candy.” Jisoo places a sandwich baggie of soap slices on the table, each one wrapped tightly in cling film and labeled with permanent marker.

 

Mingyu slams his drink down, causing Hibiscus tea to splatter onto Jihoon’s shirt. He probably deserves it. “Hell the fuck yeah. Do they taste like candy too?”

 

Jisoo looks at him. “No… please don’t eat the soap.” He unwraps one and shoves it in Jeonghan’s face. “You’re good at making stuff sound pretty. Describe this so I can tell customers why they should buy it. Fair warning, autumn leaves kinda smells like moldy vomit.”

 

“Is it messed up that I really wanna smell the moldy vomit soap?” Mingyu looks around the table.

 

Jeonghan sniffs once, twice. “I mean it’s not bad. I’m definitely getting vomit from this, but it’s not bad. It’s like a subtle vomit after smell.”

 

“Subtle vomit,” Wonwoo repeats.

 

“What about vomit?” Seungcheol asks, pulling a chair from another table. The legs scrape against the floor and make that annoying squeak noise and Jihoon claps his hands over his ears irritably.

 

They have designated seating areas at every imaginable place in the mall. In the food court, it’s the “”family”” table right in front of the pretzel stand because it’s the only one that’s never taken and can actually seat twelve people, plus the one extra seat they’ve started pulling up for Chan. In Starbucks, it’s the entire booth on the left. Generally, parts of this spot are taken, but the laws of public physics states that as teenagers (public menaces) accumulate in an area, the surrounding patrons begin to disperse. That’s what’s happened today. First it was Seungkwan and Vernon. They had established dominance by declaring straw wrapper war and stopped when Seungkwan finally got a wrapper in his eye and had to call a truce.

 

“Long story,” Jisoo says, stuffing the soaps back into his bag. “How was work?”

 

“Well, it was the hundredth time I did the exact same thing for five hours in a row. Oh, some lady yelled at me because For Your Entertainment can’t honor Bed Bath and Beyond gift cards, that was a new thing,” he replies, furrowing his eyebrows at Mingyu’s pink drink. “Oooh, is this Hibiscus tea?”

 

Mingyu nods, sliding it over. “Yeah, and I put a shit ton of sugar in it. Try it.”

 

Seungcheol lifts the plastic cap hesitantly and sniffs it.

 

Jeonghan sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t understand why you feel the need to smell everything before you ingest it.”

 

Seungcheol glares at him over a sip of it. “Man, you weren’t kidding about the shit ton of sugar, Gyu,” he critiques with a grimace. “This tastes like cotton candy and diabetes.”

 

Mingyu’s expression falls. “I love cotton candy.”

 

“Is my foot supposed to be getting tingly?”

 

Wonwoo nods. “That’s just the diabetes.”

 

Seungcheol hands the drink back to Mingyu, shaking out his leg to stimulate blood flow. “It’s all good, I have two of them.”

 

Mingyu wrinkles his brows together. “How can you have two diabetes?”

 

“Hey, spill that so Soonyoung has to come over here and clean it, I have to ask him something about our Biology assignment,” Wonwoo says.

 

“What the hell, just call him over here. I’m still drinking this.”

 

Wonwoo shoots Mingyu a vindictive glance. “I’m not going to yell in the middle of a book store, I have class.”

 

Jihoon’s hand shoots up. “I’ll spill it.”

 

“Thank you, Jihoon. Jihoon is willing to make Soonyoung’s life hard just for me. This is Hallmark card worthy.”

 

Not looking up from his phone, Jihoon slaps the drink off the table, and it lands like a with a whimsical splash, sending ice and tea everywhere. It gets in Jisoo’s socks, which is fine because he carries back ups for his backups, and the sound prompts yet another uncalled for silence. The uppity twenty-somethings with their MacBooks stop typing and the old ladies playing Scrabble in the morning drop their tiles with gentle clicks.

 

Soonyoung sighs and walks off to the side to get a mop.

 

“Nice to see you,” Wonwoo says as he gets to work, nearly slipping on an ice cube. “I actually had a question for you.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Wait, did you do the Bio project yet?”

 

“Ah, fuck.” Soonyoung stops mopping. “Is that due this week?”

 

“Yes. Glad to see you also haven’t done it yet. Now, when she said she wanted us to use primary sources, she meant original works, right?”

 

“No,” Soonyoung sighs, pulling his Starbucks visor over his face. “She meant we have to go to the library to find primary sources in the databases.”

 

“What the fuck, that’s so much work. You think she’ll check to make sure I used real actual sources?”

 

Vernon grins crookedly. “I think she’ll check your paper specifically because you’re you.”

 

“Fuck me. How much of our grade is this assignment worth again?”

 

“It’s the final project, Wonwoo.”

 

“That does not help me, _Soonyoung_.”

 

Junhui looks up from the magazine he’s been holding upside down the whole time. “Even if you half-assed it, you could still get credit, probably.” Wonwoo looks contemplative and Jeonghan just shakes his head again.

 

“I realize this is an important project, but I’m probably never going to forgive you for spilling my tea,” Mingyu whines. “I spent like five whole minutes opening all those sugar packets.”

 

Soonyoung narrows his eyes. “You spilled the tea on purpose?”

 

“Actually, Jihoon spilled it.”

 

“I did,” Jihoon says proudly. “But at least I didn’t bet that you’d drop the biscottis.”

 

“You guys bet that I would drop something?”

 

Vernon flings a balled up straw wrapper and hits Seungkwan square in the forehead. “Nah, we bet on what you’d drop.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You got a ride home, Kid?” Seungcheol asks. They’ve waved nearly everyone off, save for Wonwoo and Mingyu, who’ve decided to stay a bit later and chain-smoke on the playground equipment.

 

Chan looks at him, bemused. He walked to work, bowtie stuffed in his coat pocket so he wouldn’t look like a sad, stood-up kid on prom night. “No,” he admits. “But it’s okay, I don’t live far.”

 

“I can take you, it’s getting dark, come on.”

 

Seungcheol’s car smells like it could use some sweet loving from mother Febreeze, but Chan gets in anyway. It’s a stick shift and when the engine finally catches, it sounds like it could go in a fiery explosion at any time. 

 

“Sorry,” Seungcheol mumbles when he notices the growing concern on Chan’s face. “I can assure you, Killer is a safe car, she’s just a little slow to warm up.” He switches on the stereo and hits play. Bob Dylan blares from the speakers.

 

“So do your parents mind that you’re hanging out with a bunch of almost twenty-somethings?”

 

“Nah.” ‘Nah’ could also be literally translated as, ‘I’m the oldest of three kids so my parents kind of forget I live with them sometimes, but on the bright side, I have memories from back when they were still happy,’ but Chan thinks that might be a little heavy for the first time he’s really spoken to Seungcheol, even though he probably hears worse all the time. Just judging by the oversharing that goes on in the food court over greasy mall food.

 

“That’s cool,” Seungcheol nods. “Parental involvement in this group is kind of a no-go. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love my parents, they seem like nice people, but they do not know my friends and I like it that way. Except for Jisoo, he seems to know everyone’s parents somehow. They send him our annual Christmas card, which I think is weird as fuck, but. You know.”

 

“Yeah, that is kind of…weird.”

 

“Adults like Jisoo. They think he’s wholesome or something.”

 

“I mean he’s very…clean. And polite.”

 

Seungcheol laughs, gripping the wheel. “Yeah, you could say that. Which way do I go from here?”

 

“Left on this next street,” Chan says, looking out the window. “So, is that why Jeonghan is so close with him? Because he’s so friendly?”

 

“Uhhhhhhhhh.” He looks like he’s debating some serious moral problem. Like torture or corporal punishment. He pulls the car over. “You wanna hear a story?”

 

 

 

 

Jeonghan was the new kid sophomore year. He had a mouth full of braces that didn’t detract from his good looks, and side swept hair that bounced when he ran laps in gym class. Jisoo was on the transfer student welcoming committee. The cards were laid out almost too perfectly.

 

Jisoo came from acolytes and mass at ridiculous hours and Jeonghan rolled in from the suburbs of Chicago with a way of talking that would suggest he was well over sixteen. Jeonghan thought the whole welcoming thing was over the top and stupid, and Jisoo did too, but he needed something good to put on his college applications, seeing as his only other life experience managed to be even more dull than walking another competent person through the school hallways and pointing out the obvious.

 

“Are you going to homecoming?” Jeonghan had asked. He and Jisoo volunteered to help decorate the floats with paper flowers.

 

“I don’t know, probably not,” he answered, fiddling with a pipe cleaner vine. He’d been talking to a girl in his physics class with pretty hair, but she seemed to be more interested in going with some guy from the JV soccer team. The alto from choir seemed promising, but then she posted a homecoming proposal picture from one of the sopranos, so he was never in her league anyways.

 

“Let’s go together,” Jeonghan suggested, tucking a tissue flower behind his ear.

 

“Oh, I’m not—“

 

Jeonghan laughed. “It doesn’t have to be like that. But I’ve never gone to a homecoming dance before. And judging by the way you talk to girls, you haven’t either.”

 

Jisoo fussed with his fringe until the flower came loose. He held it between his thumb and index finger and rolled it until it became a little pink ball. This Jeonghan kid and his braces and his flippy hair. And his line of girls that would probably pay to be his date.

 

“I don’t have a suit.”

 

“Me either.”

 

“Let me think about it.”

 

 

 

 

Out of the blue, Seungcheol’s car starts smoking, and that’s his cue to finish the drive.

 

“I thought you said this car was safe,” Chan mumbles, clawing at his seatbelt.

 

“Look, so far no one has died in this car, so I say those are good statistics.”

 

“Yet.”

 

Seungcheol kills the engine, then starts it back up again, pumping the brake. “I don’t think doing this does anything but my dad told me to do it when I can’t get the engine to turn over,” he yells over the roaring.

 

“Do you want me to call a tow truck?”

 

“No!” Seungcheol yells, looking insulted. “Killer is just fine. Now, which way did you say you live again?”

 

“I think maybe I should walk…”

 

“WHICH WAY?”

 

 

 

 

 

Jeonghan and Jisoo have got to be the most subtle overtly gay people Chan has ever experienced. They don’t hold hands or do anything gross in public, but they play tennis together. Tennis. They lace up their ass-ugly white New Balances and put on Nike Dri-fit apparel, and spend an hour whacking a ball back and forth with two spatulas full of holes. Or that’s how Wonwoo puts it.

 

“You should come with us,” Jeonghan suggests after Wonwoo makes another cut at the pointlessness of tennis. “Maybe it’ll make you appreciate it.”

 

Wonwoo snorts. “I struggle to see that happening.”

 

“You can take Mingyu with you.”

 

“I struggle to see that happening,” Wonwoo repeats, eyes bored and glassy.

 

Mingyu looks up from his DS and scrunches up his nose. “Why would we _go_ someplace to play tennis when we can just play it on the Wii?”

 

Wonwoo turns to him slowly. “You sit down while we play that.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Are you going to be selling tickets to this event?” Vernon asks, perking up.

 

Seungkwan throws down a pizza crust. “I’ll take four.”

 

“Think of it this way, Jeonghan,” Wonwoo begins, twirling the plastic straw around in his drink and making a point to splash Vernon and Seungkwan with watered down Dr. Pepper. “Mingyu doesn’t know how to control his weird octopus legs. He could die playing tennis.”

 

“It’s true, he almost died playing dodgeball last year,” Seokmin supplies unhelpfully. “He’s just way too easy of a target, you know?”

 

“Sounds more like you’re just afraid of losing to us,” Jisoo says, cracking his knuckles. Or, doing the motion for cracking his knuckles and then not making a sound. It doesn’t keep Soonyoung from flinching. He’s become sensitive to cracking noises ever since the coffee grinder at Starbucks had that incident. He doesn’t talk about it.

 

“If you think that using that kind of rhetoric is going to make me want to play tennis with you, you’re dead wrong.”

 

 

 

 

 

“I can’t believe him using that kind of rhetoric made me want to play tennis,” Wonwoo groans into his hands in the locker room.

 

Mingyu on the other hand is bouncing on the balls of his feet, pretending to hit an imaginary ball with his racket, but he swings it like a baseball bat. He didn't excel in high school gym class because of his sports knowledge, it was more his size. Anyways.

 

“I don’t know, it could be fun.” Mingyu shrugs and straightens his sweatband.

 

“Yeah, so much fun.”

 

Jisoo and Jeonghan appear from around a corner in matching tennis outfits. Wonwoo gags and points the end of his racket down his throat. They ignore him and drag him out to the courts. It’s like the farmer leading the sheep to the slaughter, a jailer leading the prisoner off to the gallows.

 

“Mingyu, stop singing the Lorde song,” Wonwoo hisses, wielding his racket.

 

“We’ll let you warm up,” Jisoo says, tossing a ball up in the air and catching it repeatedly. Like an asshole.

 

Wonwoo turns back to Mingyu, who is still singing the Lorde song, and throws the ball to the farthest end of the court. “Fetch, bitch.”

 

Mingyu takes off running, almost straight into one of the nets, retrieves it, and brings it back. His long, gangly spider limbs just flailing around like those inflatable tube men. “Good, good,” Wonwoo says, petting him on the head. “Now call me master.”

 

“Can I call you Ball Master?”

 

“Yeah, I like Ball Master.”

 

A ball comes flying between them, just narrowly avoiding taking off the tip of Mingyu’s nose. “Sweet Jesus what the fuck?” Wonwoo curses, looking around.

 

“Your serve,” Jeonghan says calmly. He turns to Jisoo and grins. “Let’s go easy on them.”

 

Jisoo shakes his head. “I don’t think that’ll teach them anything.”

 

“I like the way you think.”

 

“I like you.”

 

Wonwoo flings the ball back at them, missing by at least ten feet, but getting the point across. “Can y’all be gross some other time," he gripes. “We have a tennis match to lose.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I think the neck brace is a little much,” Soonyoung comments, making the annoying slurping noise with the last of his frappe.

 

“I think it’s the only thing keeping my brain attached to my spinal cord,” Wonwoo retorts. “If you tell Jeonghan that he may have dislocated my thoracic vertebrae I’ll kill you.”

 

“That’s probably gonna be really hard to do with that tube of shame on,” Junhui says, nodding at it.

 

“You are easily my two least favorite people ever,” he grunts, turning to Chan. “You’re my new favorite by default.”

 

Junhui’s manager comes over and tells Starbucks to get back behind the counter because Book Worm has textbooks to alphabetize, leaving Chan all alone with some weird Spencer’s employee that wore a neck brace to work just to prove a point. “It’s never been us one on one before,” he starts, narrowing his eyes and grinning. “Are you afraid of me?”

 

Chan cocks a brow. “Not really, no.”

 

Wonwoo pouts. “Damn. New strategy. There anything you really want to know? Something you’ve been curious about since the beginning? And don’t tell me you’ve heard from someone else, because no one knows more than I do.”

 

“It’s fine, Wonwoo. I’ve already talked to Seungcheol about some stuff.”

 

“Papa Bear doesn’t have shit on my wealth of knowledge. What _wrong_ information did he give you?”

 

“It wasn’t really anything worth changing. It was just about Jeonghan and Jisoo.”

 

“Oh.” Wonwoo looks down. “Yikes.”

 

“What? He just told me how they met and stuff.” Jeon Wonwoo isn’t good at a plethora of things, but he’s excellent at baiting with just one word.

 

“Well… Let’s just say high school wasn’t good to them.”

 

 

 

 

 

The night of homecoming, there was a massive party at one of the upperclassman’s house, and it was Jeonghan’s brilliant idea to go since they skipped the game and the dance. Jisoo had never been to a house party, being a sheltered church boy, but in spite of himself decided to bite the bullet and tag along. The music was loud and most of the guys had shed their nice blazers in favor of donning their neckties around their heads and unbuttoning their shirts.

 

Seungcheol was manning the stereo, acting as a drunken disk jockey, and nodded hello when they walked in dressed in street clothes. “You here to turn up?”

 

“Never say that again,” Jeonghan deadpanned, dragging Jisoo toward the back of the house. He saluted over his shoulder and dodged a couple sloppily making out against the kitchen counter.

 

“Have you been here before?” Jisoo asked, speech slurring from something more dizzying than alcohol.

 

“No, all these houses are laid out the same,” he whispered back, unlocking the back door. They were greeted by a gust of cool air. “Come on, I heard this kid has a pool.”

 

Jisoo gulped, but followed him anyway.

 

They sat with their feet dipped in the shallow end, shoes and socks forgotten at the edge of the deck. Jisoo was always afraid of the water. When he was little, he fell out of his grandfather’s boat and nearly drowned. In the few minutes his feet couldn’t touch the bottom, all he could think about was air.

 

Jeonghan coughed low in his throat and leaned back, propped up on his palms. “I’m glad you decided to come out here even though you didn’t want to.”

 

“How’d you know I didn’t want to?”

 

He snorted and flicked pool water at him. “You just seem hesitant to do anything that falls out of your range of safety.”

 

“My mom’s kind of a helicopter parent,” Jisoo admitted, eyes focused on the broken glass glints off the pool’s surface. He counted the arcs of ripples around their ankles. “She’s really afraid that I’m going to do something sinful and get damned to hell.”

 

“No fucking way.”

 

“I know it sounds crazy, but that’s how she is. I love her, but I know she’s the reason why I’m so uptight. Why no one really talks to me.”

 

“I’m talking to you.”

 

Jisoo looked over at him. Jeonghan’s eyes were fixed on the water just as his own had been, half-lidded and serious. He had a split second feeling of being in a six year old’s body, completely underwater. That hunger for air came back again, the terrifying feeling of not being able to touch bottom.

 

“Thanks,” he offered shyly. “But why?”

 

Jeonghan shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re different. You’re pretty two-dimensional. What you see is what you get. You don’t play games and I like that.”

 

“You like me?”

 

“Yeah. That weird you out, City Boy?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Yelling came from inside the house. Someone screaming, “Cops!” and the music stopping. They turned to each other and burst out laughing. Jeonghan told him to forget about his shoes and run, so he did. He meant to add, “I’ll think about it,” as they were jumping the fence, but he forgot about that along with his socks.

 

 

 

 

The next Monday, they met in the library so Jeonghan could learn how to log onto the school computers. Five minutes in, someone in a letterman jacket came up behind them and sprinkled glitter over Jeonghan’s head. Jisoo just stared, not really sure what was going on. He knew it was bad, but he didn’t make a connection.

 

“You’ll wanna watch yourself, Altar Boy,” the jock warned, walking off to join his friends. They cheered him on, slapping him on the back and snickering amongst themselves.

 

Wonwoo, who’d been sitting at one of the tables listening to Some Shitty Emo Band, ripped his headphones off and pinned the culprit up against a bookshelf. “You so much as look at him again, and I’ll cause you so much physical pain you’ll wish I’d kill you.”

 

“Scary,” the kid said dryly, looking back to his friends for support.

 

“Try me,” Wonwoo threatened, bringing his knee dangerously close to varsity boy’s crotch. It would have been erotic if the varsity team knew how to use face wash and deodorant.

 

“Listen, faggot, I’m gonna need you to literally get off my balls before I break something of yours. Like that lanky art freak.”

 

“Call him a freak again and find out what my kneecap can do to your testes.”

 

The librarian, who’d called security the second Wonwoo stood up and failed to miss the parade at the computers pulled him away by his sweatshirt hood. “You must love sitting in detention,” she mocked, shooing the ballplayer away before he could get his nuts cracked.

 

He was handed off to school security, who kept trying to send Jeonghan back to class, but he adamantly walked along with them. Jisoo had stayed behind in the library, still trying to process what had just happened.

 

“You didn't have to do that. I could have just told them to fuck off myself,” he whispered, ignoring the language warning from the guidance counsellor.

 

“I already owe like twenty hours of detention. I’ll rack up more if it keeps people from getting pushed around by Sergeant Meatloaf and the Lonely Dick’s Club Band.”

 

“You don't even know me.”

 

“You think that matters?” Wonwoo looked at him with the complacency of someone who’d already been to jail and started a gang of felons with cool nicknames. They held stone cold eye contact until he got shoved into the superintendent’s office, not to be seen again until a week later.

 

 

 

 

 

Jihoon plops down as far from them as possible, aggressively sucking down an iced Americano. Wonwoo claps and turns to him. “Excellent timing, I have to get back to work. You wanna tell Chan the rest of Jisoo and Jeonghan’s magical story of true love?”

 

“No, I have a lot of anger and negativity I have to internalize,” he says, barely acknowledging either of them.

 

“Come on, the kid has years of muck to catch up on, and you were there for all of it. Least you could do is tell him the basics.”

 

Jihoon lets the straw fall out of his mouth and glowers across the table. “You really want me, of all people, to explain what hell Jisoo puts Jeonghan through?”

 

“Well you could word it differently, but yeah,” Wonwoo says, gathering his headphones and stuffing them in his pocket. They’re going to get tangled as all fuck in there.

 

“I thought they were really happy,” Chan mumbles, twirling a mangled straw wrapper between his fingers.

 

“They’re good at looking that way, aren’t they? But the way I see it, if Jisoo could put his damn rosary where his mouth is, he’d let Jeonghan be with someone who isn’t ashamed of him.”

 

The straw wrapper falls out of Chan’s hands and his eyes widen. He looks to Wonwoo for something, he’s not sure what, but he knows he’s not about to get it from Jihoon.

 

“Well, it looks like you’re taking a field trip to Ye Olde Spencer’s Gifts, Bucko,” Wonwoo says uncharacteristically cheerfully, yanking Chan up by his wrist and giving Jihoon the face that’s usually reserved for when he puts Mingyu up to dangerous challenges like racing traffic, knowing full well that he’ll do it.

 

“Why are you guys even friends with him?” Chan whispers once they’re back into the fish mall’s belly.

 

“He’s honestly a good guy.”

 

“Like, he’d take a bullet for you?”

 

Wonwoo chokes on his spit. “Dude, no. Jihoon wouldn’t take a phone message for me, but we're still gonna hang.”

 

When they walk into Spencer’s, Wonwoo’s coworker squints at Chan because he doesn’t even look old enough to understand their more suggestive greeting cards, but she doesn’t say anything.

 

“Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,” Wonwoo says, thrusting open the office door grandiosely. “Kidding. This is where I have to clock in for three more hours of living hell. You don’t have to stay here, I just don’t trust Jihoon around other humans when he’s in one of his moods.”

 

“He’s not usually like that?”

 

Wonwoo shakes his head and shrugs, stuffing the neck brace into a locker. Chan is very glad that he’s not going to wear that on his shift and publicly embarrass himself. “No, he just gets weird sometimes. Mmm, weird isn’t quite the right word. He’s a different person from day to day. Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you later,” he says, clipping his name badge back to the front of his sweater. “Stay in the front of the store, I’m warning you, you get past the middle and it’s a fuckin’ jungle back there.”

 

Chan nods slowly and after coming face to face with a wall of male g-strings, he decides scram.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Junhui?”

 

Not expecting his name to be called, he drops a stack of books and almost falls off the step ladder. He composes himself and looks back over his shoulder calmly. “What’s up?”

 

Chan scrambles to pick them up. “Is now a bad time?” he asks hesitantly, holding the pile against his chest.

 

Junhui turns to him, mouth pressed into a straight line. “It’s as good a time as any. What were you looking for?”

 

“Ah, no, nothing. Wonwoo was just telling me about Jeonghan and Jisoo but then he had to go back to work and he never finished the story.”

 

A few people pass behind them, whispering to each other about the upcoming book signing. It won’t be anyone with real fame, the city’s not that big, but die hard fans exist for all fanbases, it seems.

 

“I’ll be honest, I don’t know that much,” Junhui admits, taking the books back from him. “I didn’t start going to school with everyone until my last year of high school. But I do know that prom night 2013 was when shit went south.”

 

“Did you go?”

 

“Nah, I had to study. Finals and all that. I think Soonyoung was there, though. You can ask him when he gets off in ten minutes. Actually, you might wanna give him a five minute buffer to adjust to the real world again,” he warns, stuffing the books into their slots. “And make sure Jihoon isn’t around, I think he’s in a funk.” He claps his hands together and sneezes. “Seriously, I think it’s bad today.”

 

“Got it,” Chan agrees, nodding obediently. He starts for the usual table.

 

“Oh, wait a second.”

 

“Hm?”

 

Junhui looks completely blank, like all the things in his head are just free floating balloons with nothing holding them together. “Tell Soonyoung I have to close tonight, so I’ll be late.” He steps down from the ladder and folds it under his arm. “He’s the worst at checking his messages.”

 

As per Junhui’s advice, Chan lets Soonyoung nurse down a venti earl grey tea before he starts asking questions. In the mean time, Mingyu slides into the booth beside them, giggling about his Animal Crossing village. Apparently he got a discount on New Leaf too.

 

“Can I ask you something weird?” Chan asks, once Soonyoung wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and puts his head down on the table.

 

“Go for it. I love weird,” he says. When he sits up, his eyes curve into half moons.

 

“You were at Jisoo and Jeonghan’s junior prom, right?”

 

Mingyu claps his DS closed and scoots closer. “Oh, man, you do not want to know about that. That was a dark day.”

 

“Why?”

 

Soonyoung clears his throat dramatically and actually starts coughing in the process. “Sorry,” he wheezes. “Anyways, I’m gonna give it to you as straight as I can, given the reliability of my memory at the time. I’ll set the scene for you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fearful of what would happen if he tried buying a couple’s ticket, Jisoo had purchased a single admission for each of them. He’d written two checks from his father’s book, the one the old man never really looked at since he started carrying plastic. They agreed to show up at different times and Jeonghan pretended it didn't bother him even though it did. He figured it was better than not going at all.

 

“You’re not wearing a boutonnière,” Wonwoo commented at the door, flicking a cigarette butt into the bushes.

 

Jeonghan shifted uncomfortably. Jisoo didn’t buy him one. And he still wasn’t there yet. “Just, you know, scared of accidentally piercing a nipple.”

 

Mingyu nodded. “Valid fear. That’s why I put mine on before I put on the jacket.”

 

Wonwoo closed his eyes and sighed, then grabbed his arm. “Well, we’re going in before it starts to smell like a locker room. Are you going to wait for thine chivalrous Knight out here?”

 

“No, I’ll come with you,” Jeonghan had said hurriedly, tucking his phone back into his pocket. Still no new messages. Maybe Jisoo was just running late. It wasn’t in his nature, but his mom was a just-one-more-picture mom, he was probably awkwardly posed on the stairs or something.

 

Soonyoung was already drunk, pink-cheeked and happily clinging to Wonwoo once they all walked in. Happy drunk Soonyoung was generally indicative of sad sober Soonyoung, so Wonwoo let him hang on, ruffling his hair and shushing him when he started speaking at an above normal volume. He’d get to the bottom of it later, he wouldn’t be a buzzkill.

 

“Have you seen Jisoo yet?” Jeonghan whisper-yelled, trying to project louder than the music.

 

“No, not yet,” Soonyoung murmured, steadying himself. “Wasn’t he supposed to be here before you?”

 

Jeonghan turned and started for the back of the gym, gritting remnants of toothpaste between his molars. If someone uninvolved could be piss drunk and still remember their plans, Jisoo had no excuse. He’d better be incapacitated someplace, Jeonghan thought to himself.

 

Wonwoo carefully laced Soonyoung’s limp arms around Mingyu's neck. “Hold this for a second. Don’t drop it.”

 

By the time he caught up to Jeonghan, his eyes were already watering. “Hey, dude, are you okay?”

 

“I’m just fantastic.”

 

Jeonghan had gel in the roots of his hair and he wanted it gone. It felt sticky and cold. His shoes weren’t broken in and he was regretting not doing so beforehand. He suddenly missed Chicago and its endless, uncountable faces. It had always been so easy to blend in there and not be seen. Maybe after graduation he could go back and blend back in again, camouflage against the scaffolding and traffic signs and never be found.

 

“I don’t think you are,” Wonwoo muttered, leading him towards the back doors. The student council president, dressed in an ill-fitting rental suit, told them they wouldn’t be allowed back in once they left and Wonwoo flipped him off.

 

Once seated in the stands overlooking the football field, Jeonghan ripped off his clip-on tie and threw it over the fence.

 

“Hey, Wonwoo,” he said, breathing heavily. “Don’t ever fuck with some dude that’s still in the closet. But if you do, you just gotta say, ‘oopsie daisy’ and move on.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“After that, my memory’s a little fuzzy. I know more stuff happened, but I’m not sure what,” his voice trails off. “Mingyu, do you remember?”

 

Mingyu straightens up and shuts his DS again. “Sorry, what were we talking about?”

 

“The prom Jisoo stood Jeonghan up and the group imploded.”

 

“Oh, right, that prom,” he says thoughtfully, sticking his stylus between his teeth. “It was bad.”

 

Soonyoung and Chan exchange glances. “Thank you for your contribution.”

 

Mingyu waves off their odd looks and leans back, hitting the back of his head on the wall divider. He winces and rubs“Jeonghan and Jisoo stuff is old news. You wanna know where babies come from?”

 

“Did you even take sex ed?” Soonyoung asks dully.

 

“I sat through an entire semester of horror stories from the straight people 101, yes.” Mingyu crosses his arms over his chest and looks so sure of himself. The poor idiot.

 

“Whatever he’s about to say, just try to ignore it.”

 

“Okay, so it started out during the war between the Ancient Greeks and the Dinosaurs—“

 

Vernon tosses his lanyard on the table and pulls out the chair across from Soonyoung. “What’s going on?”

 

“I am about to spit some straight knowledge,” Mingyu tells him, nodding proudly. “As I was saying, the Ancient Greek goddess of war Artemis was about to stab the king of the Tyrannosauruses—“

 

“Damn it, is this the babies story again?” Vernon asks, sliding a hand down his face.

 

“It is, but Chan hasn’t heard it yet.”

 

“Chan hasn’t heard what yet?” Jeonghan pulls out the seat beside Vernon and makes a face at the sight under the table. Vernon is part of the unfortunately not-so-scarce population of teenage boys that wear Nike Elite socks with Adidas sandals. “For the love of god,” he whispers.

 

“What?”

 

Jeonghan gestures at his feet. “We get it, Vernon, you’re straight.”

 

Vernon sips absently from a paper cup. “It’s this or Crocs, take your pick.”

 

Jeonghan just shudders and pushes a stray hair out of his face. “I won't be held responsible for what terrible neglect you face later in your love life because of your decisions.”

 

Mingyu leans across the table. “As I was saying, Artemis and King T-Royal are about to throw down—“

 

“Aw, Mingyu, not this again. We stole all those brochures for you so you’d stop telling this story.” Jeonghan leans back and produces a nail file from his pocket. He hands it to Vernon and laces his fingers together. “If you won’t change your shoes, at least take care of your fingernails.”

 

Vernon quirks up his upper lip, but does as he says. Even he’ll admit that his talons are getting out of control. Just like Mingyu’s weird obsession with whatever crock he came up with after four months of staring at diagrams of reproductive systems.

 

“Why does everyone hate this story so much, it’s how we all started out.”

 

“I say we just let him tell it,” Soonyoung says, looking defeated. “The longer we let this ferment in his head, the weirder it’ll be the next time he tells it.”

 

“You can do that,” Vernon says, stretching out, catlike. “I’ve gotta go home and shower for as long as it takes for me to stop smelling like shoes, then air dry on my bed while obesifying myself with a family-sized bag of Doritos.”

 

Soonyoung yanks him back down by the hem of his shirt. “No, you’ve avoided this story enough. You’re a big boy now, you can handle finding out about the miracle of life.”

 

Seungcheol stops dead in his tracks, halfway to the table. Before he can turn around, he makes eye contact with Jeonghan who immediately points to the chair next to him and goes full Angry Mom.

 

He sighs and resumes walking towards them. “I heard ‘miracle of life,’ does that mean Mingyu’s trying to tell the story of Artemis and the velociraptors again?”

 

“Oh my god, it was the Tyrannosaurus King,” Mingyu whines. “The velociraptors invented electricity.”

 

“Well, I think I’m good on this one. Seungcheol, buddy, you want my seat?” Vernon offers, averting Soonyoung’s reach for whatever he could grasp.

 

Chan takes this opportunity to bolt. “Hey, wait up,” he calls out. “Wait for me.”

 

Soonyoung looks up at him, half betrayed and half dead inside, and he remembers what Junhui asked. “Oh, Soonyoung. Jun said they’re making him close tonight, so he’s gonna be late.”

 

“Ah, yeah, I actually checked my messages, but thanks,” he stammers, pointedly ignoring as Jeonghan and Seungcheol flick up their eyebrows at each other. Chan takes this as his cue to tag behind Vernon in his bolt for the door.

 

 

 

 

 

Vernon skateboards nearly as fast as Chan rides his bike, so it works out well. Until, of course, Chan realizes Vernon is panting like an emphysemic participating in an Iron Man and slows his shit down. But then Vernon tells him they’re a block from his house and it’s not worth it to try slowing down because he’s weirdly competitive. Whatever. When they get to the end of the street, Vernon points it out, a pretty two-story sky blue house with a white fence and a Sports Utility Vehicle in the driveway. It’s quite honestly the most American thing Chan has seen in his life, but he doesn’t comment.

 

“You wanna come in?” Vernon asks, tearing off his helmet and fussing with his subsequent hat hair. “Fair warning, my room’s a disaster zone and has been since like 2003.”

 

Chan laughs and grips his handlebars. “I thought you had a date with your shower head and a bag of Doritos.”

 

Vernon gives a weak, blasé hand motion and opens the gate. “I’m still on with those engagements, but right now I’m being hospitable.”

 

There’s a girl sitting on the porch swing in the front, light brown hair tied up in a ponytail with a white ribbon that matches the shutters. She stands up and looks at them curiously.

 

“Please ignore my dear sister,” Vernon mutters, spinning on his heels. “No one on the deep web will buy her off me so just pretend she’s not here.”

 

“Hi,” Chan greets, choosing to ignore Vernon instead when she waves behind his back.

 

“Hi, I’m—”

 

Vernon makes a noise of protest and puts his index finger on her upper lip. “Sofie, what have I told you about talking to my friends while I am alive.”

 

“Not to…” 

 

“Good. Go play.”

 

Vernon is quick to usher Chan up the stairs, peering over his shoulder every other step to make sure Sofia hasn’t tried to trail behind them. “Sorry, dude,” he apologizes, closing the door to his room. Lo and behold, it truly is a disaster zone. All it’s missing are casualties and FEMA vehicles. “It’s just that like, all little sisters are destined to crush on their big brother’s friends, and I just can’t let Sofia suffer the same fate. That’s why I tried to hang out with all the dudes that date each other. Better find yourself a nice boy or you’re next.”

 

Chan purses his lips and sits down at a desk that probably doesn’t get used often. There are photo booth printouts taped to the wall right above it, next to the window. They’re of Vernon and Sofia, taken when she was a toddler. In the last shot, she’s pulling his hair and his face is a blur.

 

“You know, scratch that. She’s still got her heart set on marrying Jisoo. Even though he and Jeonghan are basically already married. But they weren’t back when she met him, hence the determination. Gotta appreciate that in a young person.”

 

“Aren’t you seventeen?”

 

“Yes, and I am also something to be appreciated,” Vernon says blandly, throwing himself into the unmade bed. “I’ve managed to go years without mentioning anything of them to her, even though there have been some trying times where I have wanted so badly to just devastate her for the hell of it because that’s one of my big brother privileges.”

 

“So, their parents don’t know anything.”

 

Vernon shakes his head. “Not a thing, and we’re gonna keep it that way. Don’t get me wrong, Jisoo’s mom is cool and she makes really good store-bought cookies, but she’s a little… I’m not gonna use any descriptive words, but let’s just say that if she were to find out about what kinda stuff her son’s been up to, she would probably send him to one of those Pray The Gay Away camps and we’d never see his ass again.”

 

“Oh, no…” Chan whispers.

 

“Oh, _yes_. It almost makes me thankful for the ‘I’d still love you even if you were dating one of your friends’ speech I got from my own mother.” He sits up and shudders. “That was a fun talk at family dinner. Made me question my friend choices.”

 

“So, you’ve known Jisoo for a while then, right?”

 

Vernon swings his legs over the side of the bed and slides across the floor in his socks. “Yeah, our moms were besties back in the day.”

 

“So then… do you know what happened the night of prom 2013?” Chan turns to face Vernon, who has begun digging around in the mess of a closet on the opposite wall.

 

“That’s weirdly specific,” he says. “But yes, I do. It was ugly. Would you like to hear the story?”

 

Chan makes a note of how easy it is to get any information from Vernon. The kid’s like the Google Search of the friend group.

 

“I actually already got some of the story from Soonyoung.”

 

Vernon pokes his head out of the closet. “Wasn’t Soonyoung trashed for like 92 percent of that night? Like, not to discount whatever he told you, but. Shit, let me tell you what actually happened. Once I get this sweatshirt over my head.”

 

As promised, once Vernon gets the sweatshirt over his head, he perches at the end of his bed, knees drawn up to his chest. “Alright. Hold onto your bowtie, Kid, this is gonna be a bumpy ride.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is part one because i didn't want this to be ridiculously long in comparison to the other chapters and also because i love death and dying and cliff hangers.
> 
> fun fact about your author: i am a psych major and this chapter's summary format is brought to you by all of the fuckfign APA formatted papers i've written this month.
> 
> also i read all of your tweets about this fic because i'm creepy and i just. [sheds solitary tear] i love u so Very much


	4. i'm just scared of the future | jihan part ii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vernon eats too much frozen pizza, Jisoo could use a call-out post, and Chan is weirdly inquisitive.

 

 

Over winter break, Jeonghan’s parents called it quits and his dad left with a suitcase the day after Christmas. He felt nothing. And not the kind of nothing where you can just go about your life like nothing ever happened, but the kind where he couldn’t get himself to feel any sort of emotion whatsoever, and motivation escaped him. If he deep down wanted to console his mother or sister, he didn’t. He just stayed in the safety of his locked bedroom, ignoring the jingle of silver bells and the choir of angels and the garland of text messages from Jisoo.

 

How does one even reply to the fifth, sixth, tenth text message in a row? ‘Sorry, I was asleep for six days.’

 

He wanted to be angry. It would have been nice to have some base for the things swimming around in his chest, weaving between the gaps between rib bones, lacing tightly around his sternum like elastic bands. It would have been even better if Jisoo hadn’t come to his front door on New Year’s Eve.

 

It was seventeen past eleven when the doorbell rang. His mother had drank herself into a stupor and his sister had left two days prior to visit family. But for all Jeonghan knew or cared, she was raving her twelve year old heart out with a band of prepubescent groupies.

 

Jisoo’s cheeks were cherry red and his breath came out in fast bursts, like someone was pulling a trigger at the back of his neck. He must have been too tired to put on an angry face, because he looked too calm to be someone that’s been ignored for a week.

 

“You ran here,” Jeonghan stated dumbly, leaning against the doorframe.

 

“I ran here,” Jisoo repeated, struggling to bring cold air into his lungs. “Because I had to be sure you were okay.”

 

Jeonghan backed up, pulling the screen door to let him in. “Come in,” he said, heading for the wall control for the fireplace. He couldn’t really have the son of a pastor dropping dead in his living room. His mom had been through enough that holiday season.

 

They sat cross-legged beside the hearth, not saying anything. Jeonghan made tea, the kind that needs sugar but no one’s modest enough to spoon any in, so they sat and sucked down its bitter warmth until it started to numb their tongues. That’s probably what made Jisoo speak up first.

 

“I’ve been thinking lately,” he began, setting the mug down. He looked at the flames, then looked at Jeonghan. The redness in his face had settled to a faint pink. He looked delicate.

 

“About what?” Jeonghan’s voice came out hoarse.

 

Jisoo shrugged and reached for the mug but didn’t pick it up. “About you. About God. Just, you know, things that really shouldn’t be interacting, but they are.”

 

“Elaborate.”

 

“I was raised to love God, right?”

 

Jeonghan nodded.

 

“Then why does it feel like I’m being suffocated every time someone brings up religion? How come every time I just wanna scream a real, honest, “fuck” out loud, it gets caught in my throat? Like, come on, the Holy Spirit is not just gonna swoop down and drag me to hell. It’s just not gonna happen.”

 

_He’s hopeless and ridiculous_ , Jeonghan thought, worrying a bit at his bottom lip.

 

“I don’t—I don’t think I understand.”

 

Jisoo looked over at him. “Understand what? What I’m saying? I don’t either.”

 

“No, I don’t understand _anything_. I can’t even begin get it through my head that you believe in something with no concrete proof behind it. And I don’t get why people bother pretending to love each other when all that’s going to happen is a fucking disaster.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Jisoo asked, bewildered.

 

“My dad left. Not sure where he went, maybe you can consult your God.”

 

“My God only knows that we all walk a path—“

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, save it, Jisoo. I’m sure Christ and Friends are great but right now, everything sucks and I don’t need to hear any of thine holy bullshit.” Jeonghan didn’t even realize he was yelling until he turned his head and saw that Jisoo was flinching.

 

“We all walk a path,” Jisoo continued, voice wavering just slightly. “And sometimes it’s not a good path. Sometimes there are rocks that we trip on or rivers we nearly drown in. But we all have to walk it.”

 

“Get a fucking cramp and lie down on the nearest railroad tracks, Jisoo.”

 

“I came here to tell you I love you.”

 

Maybe in one of those terrible teen movies where romance is a real thing experienced by teenagers, Jeonghan would have told Jisoo he loved him back at that moment, sitting in front of the fireplace. Maybe he would have kissed him and they would touch or something. The set up was perfect, just like their initial meeting. But Jeonghan had enough bitterness in him to leave his cup of tea well over half full.

  
Jisoo left and Jeonghan didn’t call him on his birthday.

 

 

 

 

 

Being an only child, Jisoo knew a thing or two about overprotective parents. He understood the pressure of the world and how bad it hurt if you started to let it weigh on you. But he couldn’t figure out how to tell his parents that he feared God more than he loved Him, and he could not for the life of him figure out what it was about Jeonghan that made him so special.

 

The morning school started back up again, he got on the bus with a stomachache and had to will himself to not throw up. Every bump and turn was torture, but he made it to school with all his stomach contents intact.

 

On the way to his locker, he happened to catch Wonwoo getting his face washed in the water fountain. He pretended to not see anything. Just as always, he pretended not to see. Hands shoved in his pockets, head turned down, eyes glassy like marbles, pretending not to see anything. Just like he’d gone through life for seventeen years.

 

Jeonghan was a creature of habit, and Jisoo was a good observer. Ignoring the first warning bell and the buzz of classmates heading to their classes, he stalked down the main hall, seeking out Jeonghan where he had always known him to be.

 

The janitor’s closet, which was not of much use of the janitor since the school was remodeled, was the place Jeonghan dragged him to in between history and media studies. It was the Monday after homecoming. They had five minutes, Jeonghan timed it. He pulled him in and shut the door and kissed him clumsily. Jisoo had been surprised and Jeonghan laughed and kissed him again, this time square and perfect.

 

The butterflies in his stomach never stopped flying around.

 

He pushed the door open, jimmying the handle the way Jeonghan showed him. New Kid teaching Welcoming Committee member. But it was empty. He stepped inside and sat on an overturned mop bucket.

 

“Looking for me?” Jeonghan asked flatly.

 

Jisoo looked up, startled. Jeonghan stood in the doorway in all his oddly charming teenaged glory.

 

“How are you?” he asked, testing his voice.

 

“I’m fine,” Jeonghan replied, closing the door and leaning against the door. “What about you? How was your birthday?”

 

“You remembered it.”

 

Jeonghan nodded. “I did. I don’t know why I didn’t call. That was kind of dickish, huh?”

 

Jisoo shook his head. “Not dickish.”

 

He shrugged and slid down the dusty wall, sitting with his back against it. “Pretty dickish. If someone comes to your house at ass o’clock at night to tell you he loves you and you don’t call him on his birthday, you’re dickish.”

 

“You’ve got cobwebs in your hair.”

 

“I like them. Makes me feel ghostly.”

 

Jisoo wrinkled up his nose. “So what did you come here for?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“I came here to find you. What about you?”

 

Jeonghan quirked up a corner of his mouth. “Just waiting on the JV quarterback to come beat my ass.”

 

“Jeonghan—“

 

“I’m _kidding_ , I’m kidding. I came looking for you, City Boy.”

 

“Why do you call me that when you’re from Chicago?”

 

“I’m from the ‘burbs. I don’t know how one crosses Madison Street without getting hit by a cab. You know how public transit works. Thus, City Boy. It fits you.”

 

Jisoo looked at his watch. “We’re going to miss first period.”

 

“Oh no, what ever will we do?”

 

“You could kiss me again if you want.”

 

Jeonghan stood up and reached for the doorknob. “You’re right, I’m going to miss the lecture on laws of mass action.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vernon rubs his palms together and tests his story telling voice. “Testing, testing, one two three. Fourscore and seven years ago—“

 

Chan rolls his eyes and leans back in the desk chair. “Come on, is it that great of a story?”

 

“My god, yes, Prom Night 2013 was iconic.”

 

“Were you even in high school in 2013?”

 

Vernon chooses to ignore the question and instead narrow his eyes disapprovingly. “As I was saying, it was a spectacle. Soonyoung was sloshed, Seungcheol got slapped by the captain of the cheerleading squad, Wonwoo went fucking _postal_ in the parking lot, so bases were loaded. And then, Jisoo pulls the most fuckward move I have ever seen a human make in my natural life.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Go to prom with me,” Jisoo proposed. Jeonghan, away at sea, just gaped over a notebook of chemistry scrawl.

 

They’d been spending more time together: studying at the library, hanging around after work, the whole nine yards, but it didn’t reach a boil. It was just a lukewarm pot at the back of the stove, seeming to go colder and colder. Jeonghan didn’t kiss Jisoo again, not even in the sanctity of the abandoned janitor’s closet, and Jisoo didn’t bring up the fact that he didn’t.

 

They were at his house, Jisoo’s. His mom had stepped out to go to some bible study club meeting and his dad was up to his usual workaholic repertoire downtown. It was just the two of them in comfortable silence. Save, of course, for the impending doom of midterms.

 

“I beg your pardon?” Jeonghan gripped his pen.

 

“You asked me to homecoming, I’m asking you to prom.”

 

Jeonghan leaned back against the foot of Jisoo’s bed. “We didn’t even go to homecoming. We bailed and went to that house party. Don’t you remember?”

 

“I do, but—“

 

“Jisoo, I really do love making terrible mistakes, but I don’t think this is one I want to add to my list.”

 

Jisoo crawled out of his desk chair and sat down beside him, taking the pen out of his hand so he couldn’t keep clicking it. “Why not?”

 

“Because it’s a shit idea,” He said, calmly in an effort to shut Jisoo down, albeit unsuccessfully.

 

“Why else?”

 

“What do you mean, why else?” Jeonghan snapped, snatching the pen back. “It’s a shit idea. It’s awful. The quarterback already wants me dead, do you want to come down with me?”

 

“I want to stop pretending we don’t just spend time together because we’re friends that happen to enjoy each other’s company.”

 

“Do you really? Is that why you tense up when our friends are around?”

 

Jisoo wrung his hands together in his lap. “I don’t do it on purpose—“

 

“Look, I know you don’t. It’s just an automatic, conditioned response. You’re in the Pavlovian closet, so let’s just leave it alone.”

 

“Because I don’t want to leave it alone,” Jisoo near-yelled. “I want things to be different and I want to stop running away. But I need your help.”

 

Jeonghan sighed and went back to reviewing electron configuration. “I’ve dated guys like you before, Jisoo. Guys who think that being with someone open will magically fix all their internalized homophobia. I’ve run this experiment before. It doesn’t work. Someone gets hurt, and it’s always me.

 

“I don’t want to be selfish, but at some point, you have to stop letting people fuck you over. I’m drawing the line here. This is all wrong.”

 

“What’s wrong about it?” Jisoo asked softly.

 

“You are so far in the closet that C.S. Lewis wrote you in as a side character in Prince Caspian.”

 

Jisoo flinched. 

 

“It’s tough love, Jisoo. I’m telling you what you need to hear.”

 

“I’ll buy single tickets.”

 

Jeonghan stood up with a huff. “You don’t listen to a word I say, do you?” he grumbled, pacing the floor to look out the window facing the front of the house. Jisoo’s mom was in the driveway talking to the neighbor. A girl on the debate team lived next door, maybe it was her mother out there, low-key begging Jisoo’s mother to talk her son into taking her undateable shut-in of a daughter to her junior prom so she wouldn’t develop any antisocial tendencies later in life. Jeonghan presses his nose against the window.

 

“Single tickets,” Jisoo continued. “I’ll write a check from my dad’s book. He’ll never know, and when he sees the bank statement, I’ll tell him it was for lunch money or something. We’ll go together, but not together. Please.”

 

“Jisoo, There is literally no reason to go. Why do you want to stand in a humid, airless gym surrounded by people who want us to fuck off anyway?”

 

He shrugged then, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I don’t know. Because we deserve to have the same privileges as everyone else in our grade? Because if Captain Beefsteak is allowed to take his girlfriend, we should be allowed to go together?”

 

“Captain Beefsteak was clever.” Jeonghan said curtly, not looking him in the eye.

 

“I got that one from Wonwoo, but thanks.”

 

Silence squeezed its way between them again, sending Jisoo out on the ice float of his bed. Jeonghan twisted the cord tassels from the venetian blinds between his fingers, then waded through imaginary ice water and sat down at the foot of the bed. He turned to Jisoo with a serious expression. 

 

“Let me think about it.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vernon makes Chan follow him downstairs so he can get food, worried that Sofia may be able to sense that there was an adolescent boy in their home and get in his room. Chan doesn’t ask questions and sits at the kitchen table while Vernon wrestles with the plastic separating him from a frozen pizza. His dad walks in and hands him a scissors, which he petulantly chooses to put back in the junk drawer.

 

“So as I was saying,” Vernon says dreamily, setting the timer on the microwave. “Jeonghan took his sweet ass time, but he decided to just say screw it and go. I’m assuming his thought process was like, ‘I’m already in way too far, I can afford to go deeper.’ I mean, in the end it worked out, but—let me just tell you the rest of the story.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Bowtie or necktie?” Jeonghan asked blankly, holding each up to his collar.

 

Wonwoo rolled his eyes and groaned. “Dude, who the hell cares? It’s junior prom, not your inauguration into the gay White House.”

 

“Okay,” Jeonghan sighed over-dramatically. “Then pretend it is. Imagine I’m the first gay president and I’m about to make this country so queer you actually feel normal for once.”

 

“I’m not capable of even envisioning things that fantastic, Jeonghan. Me, normal? What kind of delusional colored-glasses do you want me to look at you with?”

 

“The kind where you tell me if the bowtie or the necktie is better.”

 

Seungcheol stepped in then, scrutinizing each tie, lining them up at their prospective positions below Jeonghan’s chin. “I think the necktie is classy, but the bowtie is kind of juvenile.”

 

Jeonghan growled and threw them both at the ground. “I should have just said I couldn’t go.”

 

“Didn’t you try that?” Wonwoo asked.

 

“Yes, and seeing me lose my shit over ties should indicate to you that it didn’t work.”

 

Seungcheol plucked both ties back off the floor, setting them back into Jeonghan’s hands. “I don’t think Jisoo is going to care which tie you wear. He’s not that observant of his surroundings.”

 

“How do you figure?”

 

“He’s been hanging out with us forever and it took meeting you for him to realize he’s into guys. Like what is that?”

 

Wonwoo gaped. “Dude, that’s not how it works.”

 

Seungcheol made a face. “What do you mean?”

 

“Oh, my poor, stupid straight boy. Attraction is a fluid thing with a million and one components. I’ll tell you one thing in simple terms: Jisoo has always had the capacity to date boys, he just didn’t. Probably because you miss spots shaving and I’m an asshole and Mingyu is… well…”

 

“Stupid?” Seungcheol asked dumbly. Wonwoo made a face. “Sorry, sorry, he’s not stupid.”

 

Wonwoo sighed and ruffled his bangs. “No, he’s stupid. But that’s beside the point. We are headed down a weird path. Jeonghan, buy a damn tie and cut it with this imaginary audience. No one is going to judge you unless you wear something that Seungcheol would pick out.”

 

Jeonghan shifted his weight to his left leg and looked back in the mirror. “So bowtie, then.”

 

“Bowtie,” Wonwoo agreed with a slow nod.

 

“You know, you are really something, Wonwoo,” Seungcheol commented, stunned. “How’d Mingyu get so lucky to be with you?”

 

Wonwoo shrugged. “I don’t know, just being at the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess.”

 

 

 

 

 

Vernon licks hot pizza sauce off his wrist and yelps in pain. “Jesus fuck, why am I the way that I am?”

 

Chan laughs and rips off a paper towel from the roll on the kitchen table.

 

“Thanks, man,” Vernon mumbles, taking it from him. “You sure you don’t want any? Now is the time to speak up, I will eat this whole thing in five minutes while carrying on conversation.”

 

“Positive. I work at a grocery store.”

 

Vernon chews and wipes his mouth. “Right, I forget. So anyways, this was back when Jisoo was trying to get brownie points by hanging out with a surrogate ‘little brother’ from the middle school, and obviously he asked me because even though he marched around like the second coming of Christ, he couldn’t stand underclassmen. That’s kind of why I know so much.”

 

He rips off another slice of pizza because ‘knives are for the weak,’ and nibbles the crust off, canines bared. Chan just watches in amazement because he’s never seen someone eat pizza in this manner. He’s reminded of that one time he had the flu and the TV got stuck in National Geographic and he watched a lion rip apart a gazelle limb by limb and was too disgusted to look away, but this is probably more brutal.

 

“So one of those times we were supposed to be discussing my long-term goals or whatever, we met at the mall after he finished a shift at Bath and Body Works, or, as Seungcheol called it at the time, Bath and Body Fucks. Yeah, one time we were just hanging out and he suggested we replace one word in the name of our workplaces with the word ‘fuck’ because he was just feeling angsty. I thought Starfucks was clever as hell. I still kinda wanna change the B to an F on Soonyoung’s visor to mess with him.

 

“But I digress. We were talking about my goals and I decided to be a smart ass little shit and turn the question on him. And he had a total. Meltdown.”

 

Chan raises his eyebrows.

 

“Total meltdown,” Vernon repeats, laying a piece of pepperoni on his tongue. “He just started going on about how much he liked Jeonghan and how bad he wanted to go to prom with him, but all these kids from his church would be there, and they would waste no time in telling their parents. It would go from their parents to his and then it would go straight hell.

 

“It was kind of heavy for a fourteen year old to take in, but I like to think I managed it pretty well. I told him that the ten commandments said nothing about taking city boys to prom, and he laughed, but like. You could tell it didn’t do anything. I had minimal life experience, alright, leave me alone. I’m still there, just look at me, I spent ten minutes opening that stupid pizza.”

 

“Not judging, man. I promise,” Chan reassures, throwing up his hands in innocence. He is, however, trying to conceptualize how Vernon eats spaghetti. It can’t be pretty.

 

Vernon grins and peels a thick layer of greasy cheese off the last oblong piece of pizza. “Yeah, well you might wanna start. My sage advice didn’t translate too well to the real world.”

 

 

 

 

 

On prom night, Jisoo waited for his mom to leave for bible study before changing. His bedroom door didn’t have a lock, so she was free to walk in at any given time. It’d be pretty hard to explain why he was getting ready for an event he was supposedly not going to. He’d cooked up a story about how he was getting together with a study group to cram for finals since junior year is so important (something he found out later: junior year of high school does not particularly mean shit to university admissions).

 

He checked himself over in the mirror, adjusting his tie. Nervous, he pulled it too tight, and then too loose. It took six times to get perfect. His hair fell perversely in an uneven line across his forehead. He’d never used gel before, but he figured right then was as good a time as any, and worked a bit into his bangs, making a part line with a comb. It went straight back, splintering away at his crown.

 

On his desk, his phone buzzed. The lock screen displayed the thumbnail of a picture message from Jeonghan. It was a torso shot, capturing just below his neck to his hips. The top two buttons were undone, exposing the bars of his collarbones and Jisoo’s cross necklace nested in the bowl of his jugular notch.

 

Jisoo shoved his phone in his pocket, cheeks turning red, and checked out the window for his dad’s car. Still gone, thank God. It was 6:00 p.m., still a little too early to leave, living so close to the school, but the sun was setting and he didn’t want to get caught in the dark. He pulled his jacket on and left his bedroom door open, strategically sticking a note to the refrigerator about how he’d probably be back late.

 

The nerves didn’t hit until he could see the school, the full parking lot and dim classroom windows. He could hear groups of people walking up, girls in pretty dangly earrings that clicked when they laughed, and boys greeting each other with animal noises. A heavy rock pulled his heart into his belly and he got that overwhelming drowning feeling, but he shoved it back down. He pretended to not notice them. Head down once again, pretending he couldn’t feel eyes on him.

 

When he looked up again, he saw Jeonghan’s back retreat as he followed Wonwoo and Mingyu into the gym. So close, and so far away. Maybe if he had made eye contact, he would have gone. No, he definitely would have gone. He would have apologized for not having a boutonniere, but he did have a Chicago bears pendant on under his shirt. He’d undo his tie and show him, and Wonwoo would groan and vow to never speak to him again.

 

But then he saw the Bell Player. Jisoo had watched him in church since they were kids, way before he had any real understanding of what it meant to be attracted to someone. He always thought about what his hands looked like under the white gloves, and there he was, ungloved hand twisted in a chorus member’s hair. She was on her tiptoes, even in platform heels, kissing him full on the lips.

 

Jisoo’s throat closed up and he felt twenty feet under water. The uncertainty of how many leagues lay below him made him turn around and hide behind the generator by the shed used for storage by the P.E. teachers. He kissed Jeonghan in there, too.

 

He would have kissed him in the gym, too, if he had walked up two minutes earlier.

 

By the time he worked up the courage to go inside, fork over his ticket, and scan through the gym for Jeonghan, he was told that Jeonghan had left. Soonyoung had told him, or more garbled it. Jisoo could smell whiskey on his breath.

 

“Did you see where he went?” he’d asked, shouting over the music and the summative voice of prom attendees.

 

Mingyu smacked a hand over Soonyoung’s mouth and pointed with the other at the exit. “He went outside maybe twenty minutes ago. I think Wonwoo’s still with him.”

 

Jisoo gulped hard and nodded. “Thanks,” he yelled.

 

 

 

 

 

“I wish I could tell you that he went out there and apologized for being late and everything went well immediately after this point, but that’s not the case,” Vernon says, shuffling back to the freezer. He fishes another pizza box out of a drawer and takes on the formidable task of opening it. Clearly, the guy is a bottomless pit.

 

“Oh no.” Chan sits at the edge of the kitchen chair, gnawing on his fingernails. “Did he really just stand him up? Like Wonwoo said?”

 

Vernon puckers his lips and rips the plastic open. “Why do you insist on ruining the story for yourself? Let the action build, go with the flow. Where was I? Yeah, Jeonghan and Wonwoo were out on the bleachers and when Jisoo ran out, and after some time Wonwoo decided to ditch and go back inside. I think he ended up calling Jihoon and he came to get Soonyoung.”

 

“Was he really that drunk?”

 

Sliding pizza no. 2 into the oven, Vernon’s expression shifts. “Yeah, man, between blacking out and puking up his guts in the locker room bathroom, it was pretty bad.”

 

Chan’s eyes widen. “Did he have to go to the hospital or something?”

 

Vernon whistles. “Aw dude, this is a story for another day, but yeah. I figure you should hear it now rather than after you accidentally shove your foot in your mouth, but Soonyoung’s mom died a few years ago. It was in May, too, prom season, the year before he started high school. It had to have been rough.”

 

“I had no idea.”

 

“And he likes it that way. Soonyoung’s kind of a private person. Or, it’s more like he doesn’t want people to acknowledge the shit he’s had to deal with. Because like, the entire year after she died, _everyone_ treated him different. I guess the fact that he lost his impulse control and started acting weird didn’t help, but. Yeah. Okay, long story short, Soonyoung habitually gets emo in May, watch out for that.”

 

“Does he always get drunk?”

 

“No, sometimes he gets crossfaded and throws up in Seungcheol’s car. But like I said, a story for another day. Back to scheduled programming.”

 

 

 

 

 

Jisoo could see their silhouettes in the remnants of pink sunlight. Wonwoo offered Jeonghan a twig from his pack and Jeonghan accepted. The flick of orange from the lighter signaled something inside him. Turn around. Go home. Pretend you didn’t see any of this, pretend you never came.

 

He’d never had a panic attack before, so he didn’t really know what they felt like, but later on in his first year of college when he took Psych 101—Intro to Psychology to get a social science credit, he understood the primal force pulling him back home. He was like a wounded animal retreating to a warm, dark place to die.

 

His mother still wasn’t home and his father was undoubtedly still at the firm. He ripped the note off the refrigerator and threw it in the garbage, then stood over the sink, waiting to vomit, tasting blood and bile between his teeth, but nothing would come up. There are few experiences in the human condition less pleasant than feeling yourself lose your grip.

 

After a few minutes of dry heaving, sweat beading up on his cheeks and neck, he dragged his limp body to his room. The tie he discarded beside the desk, his shirt on the floor. He fell into bed feeling like his head was full of cotton, listening for his pulse. Something to prove that he didn’t just eat something weird and pass out and dream up some hellscape wherein he couldn’t even do something as trivial and meaningless as go to his own Junior prom.

 

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he tossed it onto the floor in a moment of extreme and stereotypical teenage angst.

 

When he woke up, night had fallen. Moonlight filtered in through the crack in his curtains and mingled with the hall light seeping under his bedroom door. The foggy feeling in his head was still there, but weaker now. His watch read 2:09 a.m.

 

He groped around for his phone on the floor and ignoring the texts on his lock screen, called Jeonghan. The first three calls went to voicemail, and by the time Jeonghan picked up, Jisoo was so scared that he couldn’t get his mouth to form words.

 

“What.”

 

“Jisoo, say something.”

 

“Jisoo.” He hung up and Jisoo called him back.

 

“You have reached the voicemail box of Jeonghan, he is not taking anymore calls tonight, please leave a message after—“

 

He didn’t even breathe. “Can you meet me halfway?”

 

Jeonghan hummed on the other end, and Jisoo could perfectly imagine him smirking and brushing his nails on his collar. “Literally or figuratively?”

 

“The 7-11 on Water Street. Meet me halfway,” he begged.

 

“It’s 2:00 a.m.”

 

“7-11 is open 24/7.”

 

Jeonghan laughed. “Give me one good reason to leave this party and meet you at 7-11. Some examples of good reasons: physical illness, zombie apocalypse that miraculously missed our school but enraptured your neighborhood, just mere blocks from campus—“

 

“I’ll get you a blue raspberry slushie.”

 

“Alright, I’m in. This party sucks anyways. This douchebag doesn’t even have a pool.”

 

 

 

 

 

Chan looks at Vernon incredulously.

 

“What?”

 

“He got Jeonghan to come to a gas station at 2 in the morning with a slushie?”

 

Vernon rolls his eyes. “It’s not about the slushie, dude. Jeonghan dated a lot of guys in the past. He was never in the closet. Maybe he was in the sock drawer for a little bit, but never the closet. All through middle school up until freshman year he would date these guys and be so sure he was in love with them, and then it would turn out they were just using him. Every single time.”

 

“Why do you know all this?”

 

“Because I’m the designated driver and as such, I hear some Things,” Vernon mutters, peeking into the oven. “Ah, fuck, I burned it.”

 

Chan looks over curiously, craning his neck to see just how bad the pizza turned out. It’s not too awful, but the edges are carbon black and the cheese is barely distinguishable, but Vernon still wastes no time in shoving it in the freezer to “rapidly bring it to I-can-put-this-in-my-mouth-without-sustaining-injury” temperature.

 

He shrugs as he closes the freezer door.. “‘ts not a big deal. I’m still going to eat this. Anyways, so they actually meet at this gas station, and Jisoo’s waiting outside with his dumb ass raspberry slushie.”

 

 

 

 

 

When Jeonghan trudged up to the curb, the place where it tapered down for wheelchairs or walkers to roll up, he was met with Jisoo in a grey hooded sweatshirt, miserably huddled against a rusty soda machine with a dumb ass raspberry slushie. He took down his hood when he heard him, keys jingling in the pocket of his jacket.

 

Jisoo took him in, shirt untucked, shoes scuffed and dirty, tie nowhere to be found. He didn’t see him earlier, but he was sure it had been a bowtie. That was Jeonghan’s style.

 

“I’m warning you right now,” Jeonghan started, lowering himself on the opposite side of the ramp. “I’m a little drunk.”

 

“I got you a slushie,” Jisoo said awkwardly, offering it. “Just like I promised.”

 

“Perfect. There were no chasers so I probably smell like a liquor store catastrophe.” He took a long sip, wincing.

 

“You smell fine.”

 

Jeonghan laughed with the straw in his mouth. “Thanks.”

 

“I think this is where I apologize and dramatically beg for forgiveness.”

 

“I owe you some apologies too.” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, leaving Windex-colored stains on the cuff.

 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Jisoo said softly.

 

“I did. I shouldn’t have done all that stuff. Like, drag you to that homecoming party, and kiss you in secluded areas, and go full Marina and the Diamonds on you. It wasn’t right.” He took the lid off and mixed the syrup and slush back together with the straw, then looked at him, eyes red.

 

“I…I don’t—“

 

“I’m not done yet, one second.” He replaces the lid and sets the cup on the ground in front of him. “I knew better. I knew you weren’t ready to do all this but I was selfish and thought that maybe it would work out. I did all this for myself, not for you. And that’s just not how stuff goes in healthy relationships.”

 

“Jeonghan. If it wasn’t for you, I’d probably have gone to prom with a girl from drama club, pissed her off, and still ended up sitting outside 7-11 at 2:00 a.m.”

 

“I don’t get how you do this.”

 

“Do what?”

 

Jeonghan turned to him, lips curled at the corners. “Make me laugh when I’m trying to feel like shit.”

 

“Isn’t love supposed to be like that?”

 

“In theory, yeah. But that’s not what this is. This is just…pretty fucked up if you ask me.”

 

Jisoo snorted. “What in this world isn’t fucked up, come on. Everything’s a little fucked up if you think about it. Like…prom. You spend all this money on tickets, and the nice fancy clothes, and the flowers that just die. And for what? For an ‘irreplaceable memory?’ That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

 

“When’d you start cussing, Altar Boy?”

 

“Since I realized that everything is bullshit.”

 

“Right on.”

 

Jeonghan went back to nursing down the blue slushie until all that was left was machine-made snow. He stared out into the parking lot. A few people passed by as they sat there on either side of the door. They probably looked like a couple of cheap, wage-paid human gargoyles to repel evil from the sacred 7-11.

 

“So, uh. Any plans for the rest of the night?” Jisoo asked hesitantly. He brushed his fingers through his bangs. It was one of his nervous habits that Jeonghan thought were cute but didn’t say anything.

 

“Passing out and trying not to aspirate,” Jeonghan said blandly. “How about you?”

 

“You could come pass out at my house. I’ll make sure you don’t aspirate.”

 

“I do miss your house.”

 

“And my mom misses you.”

 

“Won’t she be a little confused as to why I’ll be there in the morning?”

 

Jisoo shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. She’ll be leaving by 8:00.”

 

“In the morning?”

 

“Yes, Jeonghan, real adults can function before 10:00 a.m.”

 

“Now _that_ my friend, is what’s fucked up.”

 

 

 

 

 

Jeonghan looked around nervously as Jisoo fiddled with his house keys. Jisoo noticed, peering over his shoulder. “Why are you acting like I’m breaking into my own house?”

 

“Sneaking into any place at 3:00 a.m. looks funny to insomniac neighbors.”

 

Jisoo looked at him funny. “Is this some reference to a personal anecdote?”

 

“It is, but don’t worry about it.”

 

Jisoo made a point to not turn on the light when he walked in. He turned to Jeonghan and put a finger to his lips and Jeonghan just blinked at him incredulously. “We’re going downstairs,” Jisoo whispered.

 

“Why?”

 

“The couch pulls out.”

 

Jeonghan’s chest tightened a little and he thought for a second that leaving would be a great idea, but followed Jisoo down the creaky basement stairs anyway. The basement was half finished, just as he remembered. He’d kissed him down here, too. They were supposed to be cramming for Fall midterms. Jisoo, hopped up on caffeine and anxiety, was so focused on his flashcards for AP History he didn’t realize Jeonghan had walked up behind him.

 

“Sorry it’s so dusty down here,” Jisoo apologized, tossing the decorative pillows on the coffee table. “My mom wants to save up for new floors, so she stopped scheduling with the cleaning company.”

 

Jeonghan grinned and sighed quietly. “I see.” He helped Jisoo with the pullout, shocking himself on the metal bar. He walked back over to the half of the basement with no carpet and kicked off his shoes.

 

“I think there are sheets somewhere. Ah, whatever. The blanket’s fine, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Jeonghan said absently.

 

“You alright?” Jisoo asked, sounding concerned.

 

Jeonghan plodded back over to him, rubbing his socks on the carpet and touched the tip of Jisoo’s nose. He yelped quietly and glared vindictively. “Just fine,” Jeonghan mumbled.

 

Jisoo seemed content enough with this answer and leaned back against an embroidered pillow and flicked on the television. Return To Me was on, a love story about a man whose wife dies and subsequently falls in love with the recipient of his dead wife’s donated heart, or so said the IMDB page. It was already half over, so Jisoo muted the volume.

 

“Hey, I want to know how this straight people movie ends,” Jeonghan whined.

 

Jisoo just laughed and threw one of the pillows at him. “Spoiler alert: they end up together.”

 

“Damn heteros get to have all the fun.”

 

“What about that time in the computer lab? That was fun.”

 

“Alright, I take that back.”

 

Jeonghan hugged the pillow to his chest and laid down, hair splayed out in a crown of black waves around his head. With his eyes closed, Jisoo thought he looked like an incorrupt saint in eternal slumber. He wouldn’t kiss a dead saint, but he did make the flashbulb decision to lean over, face hovering so close to Jeonghan’s that he had to have known.

 

Instead he asked, “Can we try this again?”

 

Jeonghan eyes opened. “Try what?”

 

“Whatever it is we messed up. Can we try again? Can we start over?”

 

“Just kiss me, starting over from the beginning is gonna take too long.”

 

“So, start from our last save point?”

 

Jeonghan rolled his half-lidded eyes and grabbed the back of Jisoo’s neck. “You sound like the Dungeons and Dragons club, but sexier.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah, but a lot of things are sexier than sounding like the D&D club.”

 

Jisoo chuckled lowly and leaned down all the way, kissing the bow of Jeonghan’s lips, then his bottom lip, then whatever happened to make contact. He let Jeonghan’s hands slip under his shirt even though they were cold. This was usually the point where Jisoo would just pull away, smile shyly like some moe anime girl, and resume the puritan act. But he didn’t. 

 

 

 

 

 

Vernon pulls his mouth into a straight line, licks tomato sauce off his lip, then straightens his mouth again. “So basically, they—“

 

Chan blinks. “Fucked?” he asks, quietly with a lot of apprehension.

 

“Ugh, yes, that.” Vernon slides a few burnt pizza crusts into the garbage and groans. “I think I might be sick. Because pizza, not because—“ He makes a few hand gestures that don’t really allude to anything. “Yeah.”

 

“So what, that’s it?”

 

“What’s it?”

 

“Jisoo pulled a Lifetime Movie and fixed everything with sex?”

 

Vernon furrows his brows. “No? He fixed it by apologizing and using his limited knowledge of gaming lingo.”

 

Chan stares at him blankly.

 

“Okay, I don’t really know what happened after that,” Vernon admits, leaning back in his chair. “But by the looks of things now, they managed to work it out okay. I think. They’ve been together ever since then, so my guess is they just compromised. Jeonghan plays the best friend act, Jisoo accepts living in sin, and that’s what you missed on Glee.” He claps his hands together proudly and puts his head down on the table.

 

“I probably should have just asked one of them.”

 

“Oh, yeah, you could have done that too. Jeonghan’s pretty open about all this stuff. He even knows about how Wonwoo and Mingyu got together, and hell, I don’t even know how that happened.”

 

Chan hums and pushes away from the table. “Does he know about Minghao too?”

 

Vernon sits bolt upright. “What _about_ Minghao?”

 

“What, aren’t you guys like…a thing?”

 

“No? We just happen to go to the same school and work in stores right across from each other.”

 

Chan cracks a smile. “You sound defensive.”

 

“I am not defensive,” Vernon says slowly. “I just don’t know where you got that idea from.”

 

“So talk to Jeonghan?”

 

“About him and Jisoo, yes, and if there’s time, ask about Wonwoo and Mingyu because I still want to know.”

 

“Got it,” he says, pushing his chair back in politely. “Have fun with your Doritos.”

 

Vernon just makes another dying animal sound and waves with his forehead back down against the table. Half of the dying noises are due to the frozen pizzas, which no one should attempt to ingest more than one of in a given sitting, the other half being the fact that Chan, someone he’s known for maybe a month now, has caught onto something he had only worried was real. There would be no fun with Doritos today, just wallowing and GTAV until his eyeballs crusted open.

 

 

 

 

 

The next day, no biscotti jars are dropped at Starbucks because Soonyoung has off, so neither Seungkwan or Vernon cash out. Vernon says something about bailing to go to some university informational session. It’s both weird and dizzying to be talking about entrance exams and applications and personal statements instead of after school clubs and sports teams for once. Not that he ever joined any or brought them up himself, but the excitement was still there, and it was even more exciting now that it was happening to him.

 

When Soonyoung was applying to get into the state university, he was practically on a constant drip of caffeine. Jisoo had put extra time into his extracurricular activities to the point where his sleep schedule was biblically fucked. The only person who seemed to really cope with the big transition was Jihoon, and as it turned out, he had just been binge drinking every other weekend. So Vernon really only gets this one chance to be the only person to not run into college screaming and bleeding. And he explains this to Jeonghan with gusto he pulled straight out of his ass.

 

“But I thought you wanted to start out at a tech school,” Jeonghan counters, trying not to look at whatever god-awful footwear choice Vernon made this morning. “Why are you going to a four-year school’s introductory thingy?”

 

Vernon just hikes his backpack up his shoulder and makes a very angsty noise with the back of his throat. “‘Cause I said I would.”

 

Seungkwan makes no effort in suppressing the shit-eating grin making its way across his stupid face. “Jeonghan, it just so happens that I know someone who wants to go to a four-year art school.”

 

“Hope it’s not you,” Vernon says flatly. “Pretty sure you need an ACT score above 12 to get into one.”

 

Mingyu’s straw falls out of his mouth. “Wonwoo told me a 12 was a good score.”

 

Bless Mingyu’s heart, he really did try on his ACT. He even took it twice in an attempt to score higher the second time, but Mingyu and timed tests taken in sustained silence to not mix. It also didn’t help that he’d forgotten to take his medication with breakfast both mornings. Nonetheless, his portfolio was coming together nicely enough that no one had any doubts that he’d get into his desired program this time around. This time.

 

“It is a good score,” Jeonghan reassures stiffly. “Every score is a good score when you try your best.”

 

“I’m gonna vom,” Seungkwan whines. “You sound like Seungcheol.”

 

Vernon slaps the back of his head. “Never say ‘vom’ unironically ever again so long as we exist at the same time.”

 

Mingyu, still looking unsure of himself, looks down at his phone then sucks down the rest of his hibiscus tea. “Back to Game Top,” he announces.

 

“You really do need to stop calling it that,” Jeonghan tells him.

 

Mingyu sticks out his tongue and throws his cup away, missing the bin the first time and then managing to make it through the swinging lid. He should really see an eye doctor.

 

“So what time’s your thing?” Chan asks idly.

 

Vernon, still low-key flustered from their conversation the day before, checks his watch and shrugs. “I don’t even know. Whenever Pac Sun releases their slave boy, I guess. You close tonight?”

 

Chan nods slowly. “It’s the Christmas season, so they’re kind of desperate. Most of the people in college asked off this whole week for finals, so it’s just gonna be me and a bunch of adults that watch a lot of NCIS.”

 

Vernon thinks back to the summer he spent at his maternal grandparents’ vacation house. He’d forced everyone to come along because he was sure he’d go insane just wandering through a mansion in the woods by himself for three months, intermittently watching crime dramas with his Mark Harmon-obsessed grandma. In accordance with his recorded proverbs, it’s all fun and games until you walk in on two of your best friends bumping uglies in one of your grandparents’ thirty bathrooms. He’s getting way off track.

 

He looks back down at his watch. “Alright, well, I’ll see you guys around. We still getting together before Christmas?”

 

Jeonghan sighs. “Probably not. Exam schedules didn’t allow for this weekend before the blessed day, so we’ll have to wait until the week after.”

 

“Good, I still haven’t picked up my Secret Santa gift.”

 

“ _Vernon_.”

 

“I’ll get the gift card on the way home tomorrow, cross my heart and hope to die,” he promises brusquely, pushing his chair in. “I’ll see you guys whenever, I guess.”

 

Chan watches him walk to the main doors, push on the wrong side of the door, pretend he didn’t push on the wrong side of the door, then looks back at Jeonghan. He must be immune to finals week, because he looks as unruffled and collected as he always does.

 

He briefly considers asking Jeonghan for his side of the story; the opportunity probably won’t come up again for some time. But he figures that maybe, now that he’s managed to dig his way into this group of misfits, he’ll get the whole story sooner or later.

 

As if on cue, Jeonghan eyes the clock on the wall above the pretzel cart and winks. “Well, I gotta get back to Kay and sell some eternal love or something.” 

 

He fixes his rolled-up sleeves and bobby pins a strand of stray hair back behind his ear.Before he leaves, he reaches over and messes up Chan’s hair, in an annoying older brother way, and for a split second, Chan catches a faint flash of silver under the collar of his shirt. A cross necklace. “See you around, Kid. Merry X-mas.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [mingsol for my angle emily] [finger gun jesus]
> 
> MERRY CHRISTMAS EVE!! i hope everyone is having a good holiday season.
> 
> some things:  
> exam week is over, thank god. i hope y'all got through those in one piece.  
> THANK YOU FOR 100+ KUDOS AND 1K+ HITS WHAT THE FUCK i love you


	5. times like this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These children need to be exorcized.

When Mingyu was young, his mother told him that if he jumped at exactly 11:59:59 p.m. on December 31st every year, it would make him grow taller. He would stand up against the doorway to the kitchen so she could mark his height with a white charcoal pencil, generous a few centimeters, and he would be amazed every year. Eventually she was amazed too, to realize that seemingly all at once, her sweet-cheeked little boy had grown into a man who grazed the doorframe with his cowlick in the morning.

 

To this day, Mingyu attributes his height to jumping off the couch in his living room at midnight every New Year’s Day. He paraphrases this facet of his childhood as he peels the breading off his onion rings, dipping them in ranch, then ketchup (mmm, gross). And of course, Jihoon is expending every ounce of willpower he has to keep from leaping over the table at Applebee’s and stabbing him with his fork. 

 

“I already know what my resolution’s going to be,” Seungkwan announces, taking Jihoon from a Mingyu-piercing fantasy and into a reality where it may be very possible Seungkwan ‘falls’ out of his chair.

 

“Who cares, you’re not gonna keep it,” Vernon mutters. “You’ll give up by like January second.”

 

Seungkwan just gives him a Look, personally offended that Vernon would dare to encroach on his self-promotion. “You didn’t even hear what I was going to say, shut up. Anyways… I resolve to submit my university applications on time.”

 

“Don’t you just have to do that anyway?” Vernon asks.

 

Minghao just looks back and forth between them. “Didn’t you already send them in?”

 

“Yes,” Seungkwan answers, a little too prideful. “That means I’ve already accomplished my resolution.”

 

“I don’t think you can use something you already did,” Jeonghan says, wiping the ring of water under his glass with his sleeve. “I think that’s cheating.”

 

“This is Monopoly all over again,” Wonwoo complains, dragging one hand down the side of his face. “You should be thankful that I still speak to you after what went down that night.”

 

Seungcheol bangs his imaginary gavel on the table. “Look, we all know how stressful it is to think about the future or whatever. Especially now that our next to last heat of infants is heading off to college. Maybe we could talk about our favorite memories from this past year instead.”

 

Jeonghan sips his drink out of the corner of his mouth and elbows Jisoo in the arm. “Cool, like when I went out to the garage and saw—“

 

Jihoon spills half a glass of Mountain Dew in Jeonghan’s lap. “Oops, sorry,” he says unapologetically. Seungcheol straightens his back and tries to hide how Uncomfortable he is.

 

“First semester was pretty fun,” Junhui says after a solid thirty seconds of uncomfortable fork-scraping and Jeonghan indistinctly bitching about how these are new pants, diverting attention from the color rapidly draining out of Seungcheol’s face. “Like that homecoming party at Alpha whatever frat house.”

 

 

 

 

It had been ‘fun’ to an extent. Everything was actually kind of in order for once. Wonwoo managed to find the most qualified designated driver he could, but unfortunately it happened to be newly licensed Vernon, and then he and Jeonghan argued in the driveway over whether or not Vernon was _really_ capable of operating a vehicle full of drunk ass college kids. In Wonwoo’s defense, they probably should have assigned the job to someone more responsible, e.g. Jisoo or just about anyone else.

 

“Vernon can’t drive,” Jeonghan had said to him sternly. He had the full angry dad expression going on.

 

Wonwoo scrunched up his nose and shoved the lighter in his pocket. “Yes he can?”

 

“No he can’t.”

 

“Well shit, what are we supposed to do, then? Walk home? I’ve seen him drive, granted it was stick shift and he did not do well, but Jisoo has automatic transmission, it’ll be fine. He can do it,” Wonwoo said, blowing smoke out his nose.

 

Jeonghan plucked the cigarette from his mouth and threw it into the wet grass, earning him a kicked puppy look which he effortlessly ignored. “He hit five trash cans this week in broad daylight and you think he can drive home in the _dark_?”

 

“Fuck. Where’s Jisoo?”

 

Jisoo had been puking his guts in one of the upstairs bathrooms for the last fifteen minutes. The waves of nausea came and went, leaving him washed up on the shore of a disgusting toilet that sorely longed for a wash of bleach. When he finally stopped heaving, he caught Junhui laying in the bathtub half asleep.

 

“You alright?” he asked, wrapping the shower curtain around him.

 

“I’m gonna be once I stop heaving,” Jisoo mumbled, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

 

“What’d you even have to drink?”

 

“Canned margaritas,” he answered miserably.

 

Junhui opened his eyes. “You can get drunk off those?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

It was then that the bathroom door swung open and Soonyoung wandered in with surprisingly solid coordination. His eyes were bloodshot and his sweatshirt was on backwards, and upon entering, he began playing with the sink.

 

“Soonyoung,” Junhui began, trying very hard not to laugh. “Are you stoned?”

 

Jisoo lifted his head, fighting the direction the room was spinning in and took a better look at him. He had that spaced out look in his eyes, like the lights were on and the appliances were running, but no one was actually home. “Where did you manage to get weed from?”

 

Soonyoung turned to both of them, hands still under the tap, and said very seriously, “My hands are wet.”

 

Junhui just busted out laughing and opened his shower curtain blanket burrito. “You wanna come sit down before your hands get all pruny?”

 

He shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t think I can do that. I feel like my hands are my legs, and I don’t know how to do handstands let alone hand walks. Hand walk. Hand step?”

 

Jisoo, still on his knees between both of them, could only watch in mild amusement through the haze of alcohol-induced fever and the very real feeling of Impending Death. “Soonyoung, you managed to walk in here.”

 

Turning off the sink, Soonyoung stared at him very confused, then turned to look at the door, then back at each of them. “I do not recall.”

 

Junhui shook his head and grabbed onto the towel rack for support. “Damn, what did they give you and where can I get some of it?” He held out his hand and dragged Soonyoung by his hood towards the tub. Thank god his shirt was on backwards, otherwise he might have cracked open a bone or something.

 

“Brownies,” Soonyoung answered, wrapping his arms around Junhui’s chest. “I thought they tasted weird and I was right. They did taste weird. And now my hands feel like legs.”

 

Jisoo shuddered and leaned back over the bowl, emptying the final contents of his stomach. He was sure at that point that the tastebuds on the back of his tongue were never going to grow back and everything would taste like sawdust from there on out.

 

“I feel like we have become closer through this experience,” Junhui said to him, not looking particularly sorry for him. Not that he really should have. Seungcheol was the one that insisted he shotgun a beer in the basement upon arriving, and Jeonghan had assured him that he wouldn’t get drunk on Bud Light Straw-Ber-Ritas, but both neglected to factor in the fact that Jisoo was the lightest of all the lightweights.

 

Soonyoung rested his head on Junhui’s shoulder, fingers retreating into his sleeves. “I hope this wears off soon. I’m probably going to say something so stupid.”

 

Junhui peered down at him. “You just said your hands felt like legs.”

 

“They _do_ ,” Soonyoung said adamantly. “I’m more worried I’ll say something out loud that’s supposed to stay in my head.”

 

Jisoo hoisted himself off the tile floor and turned the sink back on, put his mouth under the tap, and drank until he got brain freeze. He’d never gotten brain freeze from dirty sink water before, but he’d also never been so sloshed in his life, so it all evened itself out.

 

As he was bringing the hand towel to his face, in spite of how disgusting it probably was ( _Those are definitely come stains_ , he thought to himself blandly), the door opened again. Jeonghan took in the scene: Jisoo, smelling like strawberry juice and stomach acid, Junhui, seated in the bathtub, wrapped in a shower curtain, and Soonyoung, sweatshirt on backwards, head on Junhui’s shoulder, looking very intensely at the various bottles of shampoo at the edge of the tub.

 

“I’m not even going to ask. I’m just making sure none of you are dead. I’ll be back every fifteen-ish minutes to reaffirm this.”

 

Jisoo grabbed onto his hand. “No, I want to go home. I think I just puked up an entire layer of my stomach.”

 

Jeonghan patted a red cheek. “Aw, that sucks. But you look fine and I don’t see blood anywhere. Just come with me, I’ll take care of you. I think Jihoon is getting drunk enough to let people do body shots off him, and I wanna be there for that.”

 

Jisoo just whimpered and latched onto him tighter. “What’s the story with this one,” Jeonghan asked over Jisoo’s shoulder.

 

“Edibles,” Junhui answered curtly. “Not even once.”

 

Jeonghan nodded knowingly and maneuvered Jisoo around the door. “Fun. We’ll be out in the garage if you need us.”

 

Junhui gave him his best salute, then faded back out of consciousness. When he came to, Soonyoung was singing the Elmo’s World song to himself and pretending his left hand was a goldfish.

 

“Did you say anything while I was out?” Junhui asked, rubbing his eyes.

 

Soonyoung stopped singing and put his hands back in his lap. “Yes? I think so. But I don’t remember what I said.”

 

 

 

 

Vernon narrows his eyes. “That was not _fun_. You guys let me sit in Jisoo’s car, two blocks away, for hours until I fell asleep.”

 

“You had Minghao to keep you company,” Wonwoo reminds him.

  
“No, I didn’t, because he fell asleep before me.”

 

Minghao turns to him, mouth gaping open in betrayal. “You could have just woken me up?”

 

“Alright. Fuck it,” Seungcheol sighs. “What should we talk about instead?”

 

Jeonghan takes a fry off Mingyu’s plate and pops it in his mouth. “Let’s go around the table and try to guess who still has a V card.” Seungcheol rubs his forehead. He’s really got to stop opening up discussions.

 

“I don’t,” Mingyu says, big stupid smile across his face. He turns to Seungcheol. “Your turn.”

 

“I don’t think this is a family-friendly game,” he says weakly.

 

“Lame,” Wonwoo drawls. “We’ll just guess, then. Who here thinks Seungcheol is still a shiny virgin star?”

 

Vernon, seated at the far end of the table, shoves his beanie back on his head to hide the redness flaring up at the tips of his ears. He hates this game. It always goes the same way. It’s not as bad as Never Have I Ever, but it’s still humiliating and if Seungcheol was a real friend, he’d use his fake ID to get him drunk first.

 

Jeonghan snorts. “If Seungcheol’s a virgin, so am I.”

 

Everyone turns and looks at Jisoo, who is making a conscious effort to appear extremely interested in a plate of mozzarella sticks. He shoves one, whole, in his mouth sans marinara sauce and avoids eye contact with Wonwoo in particular, who demonstrates everyone’s favorite gesticulation, the invisible blowjob. Jisoo makes a mental note to not eat anything remotely phallic in front of him ever again.

 

“Alright, what about you, Jihoon?” Wonwoo asks, wiping the corner of his mouth. He gets too dedicated to his charades.

 

“No comment,” Jihoon says dismissively. “Why do you need to know?”

 

“Because I can’t welcome 2016 without knowing all about your dabbles in sexual deviance.”

 

Jeonghan wiggles his brows. “Yeah, come on, Jihoon.” Jihoon just glowers two holes in his forehead and presses his lips shut.

 

Wonwoo slams his hand on the table. “I’m bored and not drunk enough to do anything wild. Let’s just play Truth or Dare.”

 

“Yes,” Jeonghan agrees, perking up. “Ground rules first: No hurting feelings, no intentionally making anyone cry, no name dropping for the sake of personal gain. So basically, Jihoon, pull back on everything you’re planning on saying.”

 

“So who goes first?” Mingyu asks. “I wanna ask Truth or Dare.”

 

Jihoon just reaches across the table for the ketchup with a defeated exhale. “Truth,” he mutters, twisting the cap off. It really would not matter if he could manage to look more opposed to playing, because Jeonghan and Wonwoo, when together, are quite possibly the strongest force on earth.

 

“What’s the dumbest thing you have ever done?”

 

Jihoon pours half the bottle onto a plate and replaces the cap, then looks at Mingyu with a kind of cynical boredom. “Whatever I say is going to pale in comparison to everything you do.”

 

Wonwoo aims a mozzarella stick at him, which isn’t very threatening but it gets the point across. “You’re pushing rule number one.”

 

Mingyu smiles wider and waves him off. “That’s okay, just answer my truth.”

 

“Seungcheol,” Jihoon says finally, making an X in the ketchup pool with a fry and popping it in his mouth.

 

Jeonghan audibly gasps and Seokmin looks around the table, confused. “I don’t understand?”

 

Chan pats his shoulder. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

 

Seungcheol, whose blood pressure now must resemble dirt, cannot look anyone in the eye. He just flags down the waitress, flashes his fake, and orders a beer. Maybe Jisoo will be charitable and drive his car home for him. He can figure that shit out in the parking lot, maybe. Once she brings it back, he pops the cap off with a douchey bottle opener keychain and turns to Junhui. “Alright,” he begins, voice wavering just enough to sound pathetic. “Truth or da—“

 

“Truth,” he says calmly. Seungcheol heaves an inward sigh of relief. He can always count on Junhui’s indifference towards self-image to redirect attention.

 

Seungcheol squints at him suspiciously. “Are _you_ a virgin?”

 

“Nope. Who’s next?” Junhui turns around the table, completely straight faced, and Soonyoung flushes beet red beside him. “What about you?”

 

Soonyoung babbles a bit. “Uh, I… truth?”

 

“No, I meant are you…“

 

Jeonghan laughs and slides his glass of water across the table. “Here, buddy, you look thirsty.”

 

“I’m not thirsty,” Junhui says. “I just wanna know. Isn’t that the whole point of this game?” He drinks from the bendy straw anyway, then passes it back.

 

“Can’t you tell by that reaction?” Wonwoo asks, chin rested in his palm. “Remind me to play poker with him.”

 

Mingyu snorts. “You don’t know how to play poker.”

 

Seungcheol tries to grab onto the reigns again. “Maybe we could all play poker?” he suggests desperately.

 

“Hell no,” Seungkwan shouts, attracting attention from other tables, as per usual. He pouts and crosses his arms. “If I had to get my ass out of bed and into pants, I don’t want to play some grandpa ass card game, I want to hear something good and disgusting.”

 

“Seungcheol has a dick piercing,” Vernon blurts out before he can stop himself. Damn his immature prefrontal cortex. “Or so I’ve heard,” he adds quietly, cramming half a boneless wing into his mouth and making a point to chew loudly.

 

Jeonghan’s eyes widen and his jaw drops into his chest. “Holy fuck,” he whispers.

 

Seungcheol, probably ready to get up and leave the table, just pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales slowly. “Please drink responsibly, children.”

 

“Sweet chocolate coated baby Jesus, I am going to need the full story,” Wonwoo says, eyes still unblinking. “Like, from start to finish. What godforsaken series of events could possibly lead up to letting some dude covered in ink shove a needle in your fucking _dick_?”

 

Junhui shrugs. “I don’t know, I’d probably do it.”

 

“I just remembered I have to go to church,” Jisoo says, starting to get out of the booth. Jihoon looks like he’s caught between hightailing it out right behind him and dying at the scene of some horrible self-implosion.

 

Seungcheol groans. “God, I don’t remember. All I remember is waking up, thinking, ‘why the hell does my dick hurt?,’ looking down my pants, and screaming so loud Jisoo ran into my room.”

 

Jisoo pauses and looks at him, scandalized. “ _That’s_ why you screamed that morning?”

 

“ _That’s_ why you didn’t text me back?” Jihoon yells.

 

 

 

 

Partying with your roommates is not inherently a poor decision. In fact, it can be a very enjoyable and safe way to socialize with people who know what you are like and can take you home. But when one of your roommates is a one shot wonder and the other becomes a kleptomaniac when under the influence, it’s a _piss_ poor decision. Seungcheol didn’t exactly think through what could possibly happen until he was in way over his head. Or, at least the head of his dick.

 

Finals week was about to start, so the entire college-attending population collectively began cramming every fun thing they could into the one ‘study day’ before the first dreaded exam. It had all started out tame enough. Jeonghan had gotten Jisoo drunk enough to not care about how bad his dancing was, and hauled him through the kitchen in a very forceful faux-waltz. Seungcheol just watched them wistfully, cheeks getting warm as Jack Daniels worked his magic. Yeah, it was boozy, and Jeonghan accidentally slammed them both into the breadboard jutting off the counter, but they sure were happy.

 

He was sure he’d see Jihoon there somewhere. It was typical for him, Jihoon, to come traipsing into any and every function with alcohol, get properly sloshed, and hookup with the first person who made a move. But Seungcheol had seen no sign of him. Of course, that is, until he went poking around the house for the bathroom, and happened to open a bedroom door.

 

In drunken disbelief, he slammed it shut again, pressed his back to the frame, and listened. On a scale of watching weird niche porn to listening to one of your friends get nailed at a stranger’s house, Seungcheol found himself resetting the standard for the breadth of weirdness college exposes you to.

 

After a moment of reflection, determining that Jihoon and whoever he’d seen with him weren’t going to come out and investigate the perverted freak that didn’t knock, he headed back downstairs. The living room was wall to wall people, drinking, screaming, singing badly, touching, grinding, dancing. He didn’t look for them, but Jisoo and Jeonghan had gone outside to lay in the grass. Looking for them probably would have worked out in his favor, but hindsight is 20/20.

 

Instead of going looking for his very loving, albeit very intoxicated friends, he made his way to the self-declared bartender and proceeded to get blackout drunk. No one was able to get receipts on everything that happened that night, but it’s generally safe to assume that when you wake up with a steel ring through the head of your dick, you have a problem.

 

 

 

 

“So how bad did that hurt?” Wonwoo asks. “Just wondering. For a friend.”

 

Seungcheol just continues to go paler and paler by the second. Meanwhile Jihoon sits like an overripe tomato beside Jeonghan and peels a flap of potato skin off one of the ugly fries no one likes. Except Mingyu’s weird ass.

 

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Seungcheol says finally.

 

“Please tell me you still have it,” Jeonghan practically pleads, clawing at the table. Jisoo buries his face in both hands and Seungcheol is pretty sure he’s lost some brownie points with him.

 

“Well don’t leave us hanging,” Seungkwan whines. “Do you still have it?”

 

Seungcheol’s jaw drops open. “Fuck, dude, am I supposed to just rip it out?”

 

“Is it healed? If it’s healed you could probably take it out,” Seokmin offers. “Are you taking care of it properly? Washing it and everything?”

 

“For the love of _God_ ,” Vernon groans, emerging from his beanie shelter like a butterfly with bloodshot eyes. “Can we talk about something else? My dick is literally about to pack up and leave.”

 

“Shut up, Vernon. I gotta see this thing,” Wonwoo says with far too much conviction.

 

Jeonghan turns to Jihoon and smiles. “So, what does that feel like?” Jisoo tries to shut him up but it’s never been his forte, so he gives up and braces himself for the consequent shit storm.

 

“We are _not_ having this conversation.”

 

“Right now or ever?” Wonwoo asks.

 

Jihoon spills Soonyoung’s replacement Mountain Dew in his lap. “ _Ever_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to post a week ago, but then it just didn't because i got caught up in doing literally nothing. i'm sure once i'm back in school i'll feel more like writing again. that's how life goes.
> 
> next chapter will be another couple-focused arc with other character backstory sprinkled in as usual. yeah.


	6. hours pass | meanie pt. i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vernon is a trip to the ER waiting to happen, Seungcheol is working on getting the certification to take him there, and friends make the best pillows.

Jeonghan, always and forever the ironic romantic, figures that no matter how far back you go in time, Wonwoo and Mingyu have always been together in some form, even if they weren’t the Wonwoo and Mingyu that the world knows them as today. They’re the dictionary definition of disgusting, fitting together like two halves of a moldy sandwich. This is, at least, how he describes it to Jisoo as he steps out of their bedroom.

 

Not much surprises Jisoo anymore; he’s seen some weird things. Nonetheless he’s a bit taken aback when he pulls the door open and sees Vernon on the floor next to the couch making offended faces at their ficus.

 

The ficus was Seungcheol’s idea. The day after the three of them, he, Jisoo, and Jeonghan, signed the lease, he insisted they get another living thing to put in the new place so he’d feel less lonely when they were out on their bi-weekly dates. The landlord didn’t allow pets other than fish, and considering the brief life of Flounder, Seungcheol’s county fair goldfish from ninth grade, the only option was that of the indoor flora variety.

 

Wonwoo is on his back on the couch, giggling lowly in the back of his throat. “Don’t move too quick, man, he’s—“

 

“Did you get him high?” Jisoo asks, bending down to Vernon’s level. He’s still unable to look away from the damn plant. It’s like the party at Alpha whatever but exponentially worse because Vernon is a high school kid and Junhui is not here to restrain him with a shower curtain.

 

“Aw, relax dude, he’s fine. He likes it.”

 

Vernon slowly directs his attention from the twisted trunk of the ficus to Jisoo, eyes squinted in concentration. “Dude, your eyes are so pretty,” he whispers.

 

Wonwoo claps and rolls off the couch. “I love high Vernon, he’s gayer when he’s high.”

 

“I’m not gay _er_ ,” Vernon says indignantly. “I’m already this gay.”

 

Jeonghan follows behind Jisoo, and with an uncharacteristically calm demeanor, steps over Vernon’s stretched out legs and plops down on the floor beside Wonwoo. “If he steals or pees on my ficus, you’re buying me a new one,” he tells him.

 

“Right right, new ficus.” Wonwoo crawls over to Vernon and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Listen Sparky, you keep your hands to yourself, and if you gotta take a leak, potty’s down the hall.”

 

He pinches his cheek and sits back down beside Jeonghan, hugging one of the throw pillows from the couch. “Is this from that party on Hackett?” he asks, running his fingers over the embroidery.

 

Jeonghan looks at him quizzically. “Why do you ask?”

 

Wonwoo turns the pillow around. “I’m pretty sure no one here is named Forstenbaum.” Sure enough, the surname is elaborately stitched in gold thread, punctuated with silver leaf-shaped charms.

 

“Alright, you got me. I love things of sentimental value that are hard to replace.”

 

Early psychoanalytic theory would suggest that kleptomaniacs are driven by their sexual urges; where one has some nasty desire, they will carry it out through some other medium. In this case, physical symbols, objects of obsession. But psychoanalytic theory said a lot of shit, and Wonwoo wrote a paper about how Freud and Wittels were just two hornballs on their soap boxes that would probably have Fakku subscriptions if they had made it to the golden era of anime porn.

 

It’s much more likely that Jeonghan steals things just to see what he can get away with, a game in the same vein as ‘five dollars says Soonyoung is gonna drop one of those tiny glasses for espresso.’ And that’s not even how they got banned from Target.

 

“Hey Wonwoo, I always wondered something,” Vernon slurs, finally parting from the ficus and laying his head in Jeonghan’s lap.

 

“What’s that, kid?”

 

“How did you and Mingyu even meet?”

 

Wonwoo flinches and peers down at him. “This is the kind of shit you think about when you get high? Damn, I usually just think about all the shades of orange on the backs of my eyelids.”

 

 

 

 

 

At five foot ten and roughly a hundred and twenty pounds sopping wet, Mingyu entered the high school scene in the body of a lanky fourteen year old whose only chance at joining any of the athletic teams would come when track season rolled around and they’d enlist him as a vaulting pole. He was warned but also promised that high school would be the best, no the worst, no the best time of his life, nonstop up until the dreaded registration day. One shoddily-taken student ID picture, several packets of signed enrollment and immunization papers, and a new package of crew socks later, he was sitting alphabetically in the first period of his first class on his first day of his freshman year.

 

The clock on the wall over the blackboard was broken. The second hand would make it from the thirty-second mark to the forty-five second mark, twitch and try its hardest to get past the nine, and then fall back between the six and seven. He thought to himself, ignoring whatever the teacher was saying, that the poor thing should really get new batteries or be put out of its misery or something.

 

He wasn’t sure of when the bell rang, since the clock was still seizing and he actually abided by the strict absolutely-no-cell-phone-use-in-class rule, but he was well assured that high school was nowhere near as terrifying as it seemed in sitcoms and movies. And once he was hushed into a self-induced sense of security, he tripped over his own spindly legs and came down on his knees halfway up the stairs.

 

Before he could paw for his glasses, someone stepped on them, and a small piece of his soul shattered in his gut like the coke bottle lenses. A boy, or from Mingyu’s perspective, a guardian angel, with shaggy hair past his eyebrows stopped halfway down the flight and helped him sweep the broken glass into his hand.

 

“Oh wow, that looked painful, are you okay? What’s your name?” he asked, handing Mingyu the mangled remains of his busted frames.

 

“Mingyu,” he said a little breathlessly, just slightly aware of the cranky, sleep-deprived seniors hissing something about underclassmen and hunting season. It didn’t sound particularly good.

 

“Cool, nice to meet you. That was uh, quite the tumble. Glad you’re alright. I’m Seokmin, by the way,” he said, wiping his hands on the front of his jeans. “Are you a freshman too?”

 

“Yeah,” Mingyu answered stupidly, trying to focus on the suddenly-blurry staircase below him. “Well, thanks, but I’ve got to get to class.”

 

“Oh, you’re welcome! See you around.” He probably smiled before he left, skipping down the steps, but Mingyu was too distracted by how low-contrast the world was without his glasses to notice or ask him where he could find room 325. His eyesight had been terrible since he was a child, almost as bad as the lack of coordination that caused him to break pair after pair of frames.

 

It wasn’t until Seokmin and the rest of the student body, strung like beads following the same path, dissipated from the stairwell that he realized he had no clue how he was going to find his classroom. Or at least not without dying in a mortifying and pitiful way. But then again, he had just successfully fallen up the stairs and broken his embarrassingly thick glasses in the same stride.

 

Squinting at the numbered plaques outside each door, he found the classroom after a near complete loop of the entire third floor. It was sort of in his nature to miss things by “that much.” The round of state testing concluded that he was just below proficient in all the important academic areas, which wasn’t that much of a let down, because it wasn’t like he didn’t fit in at all to start with. It was fine to be dumb if you had some other redeeming qualities just like it was fine to look like a massive knob as long as you were smart, but when Mingyu stood in front of the full-length mirror in the foyer that morning, he just saw someone that was not smart enough to look as pathetic as he did.

 

He assumed the room full of students saw the same sad kid when he walked in, but they paid him no attention until the teacher called him out.

 

“Mingyu, is it?”

 

He turned slowly towards the direction of her voice, feeling eyes on him but not seeing them. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Do you know what time it is?” She gestured up at the clock above the blackboard, but he couldn’t see it worth shit. It could have read 4:34 a.m. for all he could tell. Before he could say a watered down version of such, she reached into her desk drawer and produced a pad of what appeared to be post-it notes, but he knew better.

 

“Detention,” she said damningly, pen growling against the paper. “First one of the school year.”

 

Mingyu just surrendered, sliding back out of his chair and trudging up the aisle to collect his ticket to the torture chamber. It was one way to get out of English 9, albeit an ugly one.

 

A boy near the back of the room spoke up. “Come on. It’s the first day. And he’s a freshman. Or a new student. I don’t know. But—“

 

She picked her pen back up. “I can write you one as well.”

 

He closed his notebook and slung his backpack over his shoulder. “That’d actually be great, thanks. It’s spelled B-I-T-C—“

 

 

 

 

 

Wonwoo is what parents would call “a bad influence.” However, Wonwoo’s counter philosophy on this simply states that Vernon has just got to stop being the most gullible sack of baby food on the planet. When one is old enough to operate a motor vehicle, one should know better than to ride a skateboard with loose trucks down a halfpipe without a helmet, but Vernon has always been an outlier, in more ways than one.

 

“Alright,” Mingyu says carefully, passing the lighter back to Wonwoo. “I dare Vernon to ride down the stairs by Penney’s.”

 

Vernon, with his mouth full of Red Bull, makes a noise in protest. “Dude, don’t be a dick with the dares. My mom said that if I crack my skull open doing something stupid on my bike, she wouldn’t pay any doctors to stuff my brains back in.”

 

Mingyu frowns, blowing smoke out of his nose. He kicks into the fine gravel with the heel of his shoe, then lights up. “Well, wait. If you’re on my pegs, that’s not your bike, is it?”

 

“Shit, you’re a genius?”

 

Wonwoo takes in the prospect, roosted on the edge of a terra cotta colored planter, twirling the little white lighter between his fingers. Seungcheol holds onto Vernon’s phone should it be ejected when Mingyu’s bike hits the second cement landing and they go tumbling to their deaths. It’d be a terrible waste of a perfectly good iPhone, Jeonghan points out, elbowing Wonwoo in the ribs. He nudges harder until he gets a smile out of him and reaches for his chest pocket.

 

“Listen, Jeonghan, either buy your own cigarettes, or fuck off,” Wonwoo mutters, smacking his hand away.

 

“What kind of best friend are you?”

 

“The kind that wants all the lung cancer to myself. Now fuck off.”

 

Jeonghan just lets his eyes roll into the back of his head and presses his back against the tree in the planter. It’s one of those generic, nondescript trees that are really only there to trick people into thinking the parking lot isn’t just some barren expanse of cement when it really is. But it just looks like someone copied a twig from a nursery and pasted it haphazardly at the edge of the terrace. As for the terrace itself, it’s well past its heyday, littered with cigarette butts and beer tabs. Back when the cement was still wet, some people in love or something traced their initials into it.

 

“Minghao, you wanna time this?” Mingyu asks. He lets Vernon wrap both arms around his neck for “added security” (“Has that ship not sailed?” Seungcheol remarks), with his feet on either side of the pegs, planted firmly at their arches.

 

Somehow managing to look both anxious and bored at the same time, Minghao looks up from his mall pretzel and nods. “Are you trying to break a record or something?”

 

“I just like having stats,” Mingyu explains, handing over his phone.

 

Wonwoo turns back to Jeonghan. “Speaking of stats—hey, what the fuck?”

 

“You should really be more aware of your surroundings,” Jeonghan says calmly, letting cigarette smoke waft off his voice. Wonwoo will never understand how he always does this, even in the complete absence of bedlam. In the thirty-ish seconds his head had been turned to witness Vernon’s famous last words, Jeonghan had soundlessly stolen one of his Newport 100’s, lit it, and burned through half of it.

 

“You should really look into seeing someone about your kleptomania.”

 

 

 

 

 

He disclosed that his name was actually Wonwoo, not Bitch as he may have suggested before. From the looks of him, now with corrected vision having found a spare pair of glasses (the ugly ones with the bent bridge) buried at the bottom of his backpack, Mingyu could tell he was one of those kids. He wore his hair in a flat-ironed mess underneath a black knit beanie, and his jeans and shoes were scruffy and full of holes, but his voice was low and calm. They sat together in the back corner of the designated teenager timeout zone.

 

“This room used to be a dance studio,” Wonwoo said, chin cupped in his hand. The supervisor, a tired-looking man who looked too fresh out of high school himself to be put in such a position, barely looked up from his book to scold him. “But then funding got cut to the arts and now this place is a robot factory.”

 

Mingyu studied his face, trying not to look like he was gawking, but he most definitely appeared to be.

 

“The 2D media studio is hanging by its last thread,” Wonwoo continued, rooting around in his bag. He pulled out a sketchbook, fattened with clippings and layers of paint. “You know you don’t even need any fine arts classes to graduate anymore? Not to be a nihilist asshole, but what is the point of entering this plane of existence without attempting to leave something on it?”

 

His thin fingers found the string acting as a place marker, and opened the book to a half-colored page, and Mingyu wished he had been born with better eyesight or coordination or both.

 

“You do anything exciting?

 

“Hm?”

 

Wonwoo held his pencil still and looked at him. “I guess what I mean is, what do you like to do? No offense, but you don’t really look like someone who does anything.”

 

“I feel like I should be offended.”

 

“Being offended gets no one anywhere, but explaining what about it offends you changes things.”

 

Mingyu watched the tip of his pencil trace tiny parallel lines along the edges of the paper. “I’m not. You’re right. I don’t do anything.”

 

“Everyone does something. I was just being an asshole.”

 

“I thought you said you weren’t an asshole.”

 

Wonwoo pointed his pencil, eraser end, at him. “I said I didn’t mean to sound like a nihilist asshole.”

 

“What’s a nihilist anyway?”

 

“A paradoxical douchebag. See, nihilism as a belief is based in the thought that life in its entirety is meaningless. Like, everything is nothing and we should all die. But if life is so meaningless, why do these people still bother living? Better yet, why congregate and make a movement if everything is for nothing?”

 

The appointed student warden kept reading his book, doing that gross thumb-lick before each turn of a page.

 

“I don’t know. Maybe all nihilists really want is to argue. Maybe all they believe in is fighting.”

 

Wonwoo shrugged and kept drawing. “You never did answer my question.”

 

“What was that?”

 

“What do you do?”

 

 

 

 

 

For the first time in months, there is sun. The frozen mountains erected by snowplows had melted into tiny ice caps that littered the centers of medians, making the light poles look like sticks shoved into snow castles.

 

Chan stumbles upon the scene by chance. He’d clocked out, stuffed his bowtie in the pocket of his sweatshirt, and left the fluorescent lit premises feeling more like it was four in the morning than four in the afternoon. The parking lot had filled up like a pair of lungs, with cars filling each little space, depositing oxygenated shoppers into the body of the mall in a perfectly organized chaos. If Vernon hadn’t screamed and landed face-first in the manicured shrubbery lining the far end of the lot, Chan would have missed their disparate, but equally organized chaos.

 

“Oh hey dude,” Seungcheol greets, fishing Vernon out of the fingers of a bush. “What’s up?”

 

“Just finished unloading upwards of fifty boxes of dry product,” Chan says flatly. Wonwoo mutters some speculation as to what Chan means by ‘dry product’ to Jeonghan. Chan wants to tell him it’s not cocaine, but he figures it’d make work more fun if he could convince himself he was unpacking contraband, not boxes of dry rice. ”What about you?”

 

Seungcheol shrugs and picks little leaves out of Vernon’s bangs. “Oh, just the usual. Dicking around, ignoring responsibilities, preparing myself for emergency situations.”

 

“Emergency situations?”

 

“Yeah. At the end of the semester, I’m quitting FYE and starting en vivo EMT training.”

 

Wonwoo buries a cigarette butt next to the planter. “He’s trading in this three-letter job for one with more blood and guts, basically.”

 

“Oh, cool. Like, ambulance stuff?”

 

“Picture it though,” Jeonghan says, brushing dirt from the seat of his jeans. “Would you really want Seungcheol to be the one to drag you out of a burning car, Chan?”

 

Wonwoo interrupts before he can answer, “Literally yes. Big Papa can drag me wherever he wants.”

 

Seungcheol visibly cringes. “Must you?”

 

“And I repeat, literally yes.”

 

Amidst the casual conversation border-lining flirting, Mingyu is walking circles around his bike with his shirt lifted halfway up his chest. Wonwoo walks over to him and helps him hold the hem up as he cleans greenery out of his belly button.

 

“How’d you even do this? Vernon is the one that cannonballed into the shrubs.”

 

“I don’t know,” Mingyu answers, examining a single green leaf. “Could be from one of the test runs.”

 

“How long have you been riding down these stairs?” Chan asks. He figures he really shouldn’t be that caught off guard by anything, and yet here he is, just as dumbfounded as he was on New Year’s when the cat (read: Seungcheol’s Wild Adventure in Nameless Tattoo Parlor) was let out of the bag. He momentarily deliberates over the idea of an emergency medical technician with a Prince Albert and regrets it.

 

“Like, from today or in our whole lives?” Vernon asks, retrieving his varsity jacket from around Minghao’s waist.

 

“I’m not so sure what I meant anymore.”

 

 

 

 

 

Mingyu had told Wonwoo that he didn’t do much of anything, which was not exactly a lie, but of course, it wasn’t the whole truth either. He played video games and pipe dreamed about becoming a game designer, but he didn’t have the cash to build his own PC and his sketches had never seen the light of day. The latter being why he’d enrolled in Drawing: Level 1 as his freshman elective.

 

The first assignment seemed pointless. _Draw the object in front of you from life. Draw what you see, not what you know._ Each student was given their choice from a plastic tote of objects, a piece of A4 paper, and a stick of burnt-red conté, which Mingyu had never even used in his life. He looked around, listening curiously to the complaints of other students, about how asinine the whole idea was, that they wanted to learn how to draw photorealistic portraits or cars or use the thick oil paint Monet had used to immortalize his late Camille.

 

A girl with a sea blue vessel rose her hand. “Can I use a different object?”

 

The teacher looked at her, smiling wistfully, and shook her head. “If I let one person switch subjects, everyone will want to.”

 

Mingyu stared, taciturn, at the old rotary phone in his hands. Its cord was intact, but the receiver was missing. He poked his index finger into a button and turned the dial, listening for the satisfying, clicking whirl of the finger wheel spinning back into place. Clearly annoying the person next to him, he took his hands off of it, picked up the conté stick, and began sketching.

 

_Draw what you see._

 

He drew it looking head-on, with thick contour lines outlining the body and metal feet. He’d used a sharp corner to define the numbers, one to zero, and the flat side to shade in the flat planes where the light didn’t touch it. The girl with the blue vessel concentrated on an oblong bottle with undulating edges, peering over at his phone with a huff.

 

_Not what you know._

 

“Not bad,” the teacher commented, looking over his shoulder. He jumped a bit, dropping the waxy pastel onto the floor. It broke in half. She continued, “What’s your schedule like?”

 

 

 

 

 

At six, Wonwoo had terrible separation anxiety from his mother, exacerbated when she’d been injured in a motor vehicle accident. What he didn’t know then that he knows now, is that she had Percocet in her system, Percocet that she hadn’t been prescribed, but was in possession of nonetheless. She faced DUI charges. Wonwoo, being six years old, didn’t know about that either.

 

He’d cry every time she would leave, even if it was just to run to the store, asking her not to go. His father, phlegmatic and much more interested in the news, disregarded his pleading for him to go instead. Quieting him, she promised that she would be okay this time, kissed each of his cheeks (right, then left), and held him back as she slipped out the door.

 

It never struck him as odd that she didn’t come back with anything she said she was getting, and it still doesn’t. His realizations have just changed. He understands now that she will never tell him what he already knows, just like he will never try to stop her from going out and meeting random people in secluded parts of town to buy opioids.

 

“You’re home early,” she says unceremoniously as she schleps in.

 

He doesn’t look up from his notebook. Lately he does this thing where he acts like he’s studying, but he’s drawing the monsters he thought lived inside her car when he was a little boy, with big teeth and no eyes. “Mhm,” he hums.

 

“I talked to a girl at the salon today about you. She can’t believe you’re in college now. Do you remember Gina? She used to watch you when you were little.”

 

“That’s nice,” he mumbles. “How’s she doing these days?” _Still selling heroin? I hear that’s real lucrative._

 

Gina was the nicer of his mother’s friends. She always wore pink nail polish and chewed bubblegum of the same color, and let him have pieces of it whenever she came by. In an external context, the story would be believable, save for the fact that a) Gina did not work at a salon, b) Gina was another addict also forced to attend group counseling sessions after crashing her car in a drugged out mess, and c) Gina has been dead for two months. Her death notice was in the paper.

 

He’s not sure if his mother is lying or is legitimately convinced that she actually saw someone whose obituary he read the week after Christmas, so he plays along.

 

“Good, good. She’s doing hair now, she loves it.”

 

“I’m going to bed.”

 

“Wait, I wanted to talk to you.”

 

“‘Bout what?”

 

She’s not looking at him, she’s looking at the wall behind his head. “Are you still planning on moving out this summer?”

 

That would be the plan. He and Mingyu talked it over and found the cheapest, shittiest one-bedroom place above a high-traffic liquor store a block from campus, and put in an application that was accepted days later.

 

“Yeah, with Jeonghan.” He is not moving in with Jeonghan. They would end up killing each other or setting something on fire. Jeonghan is just the ruse to catch his mother in the lie of knowing what kind of people her son associates with and she takes the bait.

 

She smiles, like she has some faded memory of who Jeonghan is, even though she probably wouldn’t know him if she saw him. “He’s a good kid, I’m glad he’s your friend.”

 

The fact of the matter is, her familiarity with Mingyu is indistinguishable, even though he’s been sneaking into the house for years, and Mingyu is the reason he isn’t also parading himself around under the pretense of ‘going to the salon’ or what have you. He can feel her watch him climb the stairs, so he doesn’t look down, even though that six-year-old inside him wants to look and make sure she’s still there.

 

 

 

 

 

_Drawing: Level 2_ was written in artistic chicken scratch over what used to be English 9, and _English 9_ was written in blocky handwriting by the fourth period English teacher who deemed his class roster empty enough for another student. Hopefully the teacher who’d sent him to detention the day before wouldn’t miss him too much. The bored-looking office lady clicked her mouse, typed in some numbers, and sent Mingyu back to class to sit and stare at The Little Clock Above The Blackboard That In All Reality Could Not.

 

Mingyu really had no expectations of Drawing: Level 2, but he definitely did not expect to see Wonwoo standing by the teacher’s desk with a portfolio bag strung over his shoulder. His bangs had been pushed back, clocked beneath another knit cap.

 

“Well hello, my fellow delinquent,” he said, saluting idly.

 

In detention the day before, Mingyu had seen Wonwoo drawing. As in the action, he had seen him do it. But he did not see what he’d drawn. All of the Level 2 students carried massive portfolios of work they’d done over the summer, except Mingyu. By the teacher’s instruction, they went out into the hall and unzipped their bags and began posting them to the walls with drafting tape, which was apparently different from plain tape.

 

“It won’t tear the paper when you take it off,” Wonwoo explained, affixing a graphite drawing of a cat’s eye on top of a generic-looking You Can Succeed poster.

 

Mingyu hadn’t questioned it, he’d been too absorbed in the amount of detail in all of his drawings: a watercolor study of an alleyway, an entire page of charcoal sketches of figures in various poses, ink washes of fabrics draped over chairs, collages of scraps and magazine clippings and found photographs.

 

“You’re so good,” he commented softly. A few late students walked past. _Why aren’t they looking?_ he thought. _How do you walk by without looking?_

 

Wonwoo looked at him funny, like he’d said something in a language he couldn’t even name, but grinned. 

 

“Like, these should be in a museum. They’re great.”

 

This was the exact second where Wonwoo realized Mingyu wasn’t another dumb underclassman in crooked glasses and crew socks. Sure, the crooked glasses and crew socks were definitely there, and good god did someone have to do something about that, but he became intangibly different in that ambiguous space of time. It was the _exact second_ where in the future Jeonghan would have the mind to slap him upside the head and tell him to pay attention to the nuances in Mingyu’s face when he looks at his work, and Wonwoo would hit him back and tell him to be less of a flaming gay.

 

“What museum?” Wonwoo scoffed.

 

Mingyu shrugged and kept looking from piece to piece, not sure which to focus on. “I don’t know, but they should be.”

 

 

 

 

 

“So what was your favorite part of being high?” Wonwoo asks Vernon. He’s got his head nested in the middle of Mingyu’s stomach, feet rested on one of Junhui’s knees. Mingyu has fallen asleep with his head halfway under the coffee table.

 

A few minor things had been forgotten in the ostensibly hectic bustle of buying the ficus; the thought to obtain more furniture than just a couch completely escaped Seungcheol, Jisoo, and even Jeonghan.

 

Vernon, with one shoulder pressed against the wall, and the other against one of Minghao’s shoulders, just glares at him over an extra large M&M McFlurry.

 

Wonwoo returns his less than menacing glance with a smile and dips another fry into his shake. “Mine was when you said you were always gay.”

 

“Probably when you passed out in the middle of your sentence about how you thought Mingyu was one of those genius kids when you first met him,” Vernon mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

 

“Dude, he looked the part.”

 

Jihoon, who’s been seated at the kitchen table by himself for the majority of the evening, walks over and plops himself down at one edge of the oblong shape their bodies make on the floor. “I thought lefties were supposed to be smart.”

 

“You’re lucky I’m a slut for vanilla milkshakes, otherwise this thing would be in your face,” Wonwoo says, twirling a cherry stem between his thumb and index finger.

 

Jeonghan makes a dissenting groan from his claimed end of the couch and kicks him in the shoulder with his heel. “Would you two quit fighting in my house? God damn, I’m about to send you to the store for something unnecessary so you shut up.”

 

Sitting up, Wonwoo fixes his mess of black hair and sighs. “I have to go soon anyway,” he says, voice lowering. “Gotta go make sure my parents haven’t killed each other or anything cute like that.”

 

Mingyu rouses and promptly slams his forehead on the underside of the table. “Fuck.”

 

“Careful,” Wonwoo warns, incongruously, as he then nearly tripping over Minghao’s long, needly legs.

 

“I’m fine. Did you want me to drop you off?”

 

Wonwoo shakes his head and slips into the leather jacket he left on the floor of the foyer. He’d dropped it subordinately when Jeonghan gestured toward the designated coat closet as if Wonwoo would respond like some kind of monkey with manners or regard for civility. “No, it’s okay. It’s way better they don’t hear me come home.”

 

Jeonghan looks up from his phone. “Will you call when you get there?”

 

“You are such a good mother, Jeonghan.”

 

“I am being serious.”

 

“So am I.” He steps into his shoes and heads for the door. “Later guys. Bye, Mother Dearest.”

 

 

 

 

 

When he came home that night, with drafting tape wrapped around the bridge of his glasses to hold them straight across his face, he told his mom he made a new friend who was an artist.

 

“Really?” she asked, nearly dropping a spoon into the garbage disposal.

 

He nodded and ran a dishtowel over the kitchen table, stifling the unfamiliar urge to smile stupidly. “Yeah, mom, he’s so good. You’ll see it at the art show. It’s in May.”

 

“We’ll go,” she said, turning to his father. They exchanged proud, but wistful glances. _Oh thank god, our sweet, but weird son finally has a friend!_ “What about that nice boy who helped you when you dropped your glasses?”

 

Mingyu had almost forgotten about Seokmin. He’d seen him around in the halls; he would always smile and wave, but he always seemed to be running off somewhere. Wonwoo mentioned to him over a tray of generic School Lunch that he was in the drama club, and the president always had weird requests that Seokmin was too nice and oblivious to reject.

 

“Oh, I saw him today. He’s going to be in the play this spring, we could go to that too.”

 

“We will,” she assured, reaching up to fix the sprig of hair poking up at the crown of his head. “Figure out how much the tickets are and we’ll go.”

 

He looked at her. She restrained heartbreaking excitement over him finally having a friend that wasn’t his lab partner, and he pretended like it wasn’t embarrassing that the last “friend” he had over was a classmate whose name he didn’t even remember. He was a new kid that started a few months into the school year and had moved again by winter break, which was unfortunate because he was one of few people that didn’t think Mingyu’s optimism was off putting or immature. They’d constructed the perfect cradle for an egg to be dropped from the roof of their middle school.

 

It was perfect until it hit the ground and the egg splattered on the pavement.

 

 

 

 

 

Seungcheol wakes up to five missed calls. His eyes won’t focus on any of the notifications. By the time he’s fully awake, the blur of sleep subsiding, the phone is ringing again.

 

“Hello?”

 

There’s an inaudible sobbing noise that doesn’t make sense, but the caller ID reads _Minggu_ and the equation balances and Seungcheol’s heart drops into his gut.

 

“Mingyu?” he whispers.

 

“You need to come here now. I’m sorry—I don’t know who else to call.”

 

He gets out of bed, quietly. Jihoon still shifts beside him and mouths, _What’s wrong?_ He doesn’t have an answer so he doesn't give one. Not right away.

 

“Mingyu,” he says firmly. “What is wrong?”

 

“I’m at the hospital on the West Side. Something bad happened, okay? Please just come here.” There are tears in his voice. It’s more intense than a shudder, more like a violent instability. It sounds for a second like he might say more, but his breathing gets uneven again and he stays quiet.

 

Jihoon has gotten out of bed by this point as well.

 

Seungcheol fumbles with the jeans he left his car keys in. “I’ll be there. Stay on the line with me while I drive. Tell me what happened.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while!!!!! this semester has been kicking my ass hence the lack of updates. ~_____~ i'm sorry omg...
> 
>  
> 
> thank u for staying with me


	7. count the minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Abstract**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> AO3 user crumbling has not updated "MALL AU" in two months. The purpose of the present chapter is to re-establish whatever is going on. But hell if she has any idea.

 

 

The first time Mingyu stepped into Wonwoo’s house, his starch-white shirt was stained with red Gatorade and he felt like crying. Wonwoo shushed him softly and held the screen door open as he shuffled inside. He was immediately struck by the fetid smell of old cigarette smoke and clothes left in the washer too long. Accustomed to it, Wonwoo seemed unbothered, leading him past an untidy living room and up a flight of stairs.

 

The bathroom was the first room on the right. There was a forest green shower curtain hiding the tub that Mingyu only noticed because it matched the rug Wonwoo caught his foot on as he stepped in. He opened a cabinet under the sink and pulled out a tattered blue towel and offered it to him.

 

“You can wear one of my shirts,” he said stiffly, signaling for Mingyu to follow him back down the stairs. “I’m sure I have something long enough.”

 

The saleslady at the department store said the same thing, but it turned out those shirts were all monstrously baggy over his bony shoulders, or their mature cuts made him look like the world’s tallest child going to church. Mingyu had been too tall for boys’ clothes by the time he turned twelve, something his mother noticed one day when he walked into the kitchen for dinner and the hems of his pants came nearly three inches up his ankles.

 

The shopping trip ended in a bust; he ended up settling for pale-hued packaged T-shirts from the men’s section. He looked like a halloween decoration dressed in cheesecloth in each one, with a disproportionate pumpkin head perched atop his thin frame. His mother, whom he here stood just shy of a foot over, still told him he looked handsome, patting one of his still-chubby cheeks.

 

 

 

Wonwoo’s room was exactly as he thought it would look: ceiling low enough to be covered with posters, and thick, dark curtains blocking out the late-afternoon sunlight. Each wall was plastered with clippings and scraps—a spread of Sally Mann photography, some Chuck Close portraits, a shiny magazine cutout of _Saturn Devouring His Son_ , and drawings on post-it notes. The first thing Wonwoo did when they walked in was throw down his bag and portfolio and reach for a sketchbook on the bookshelf above his bed. Mingyu looked around curiously, towel wrapped around him.

 

Observant of his stifled nervousness, Wonwoo cocked his head to one side and grinned. “Fuck other kids, alright? They have to do something to feel better about the fact that they’re going to live shitty, ordinary lives and then die shitty, ordinary deaths.”

 

He stood back up and held out a hand. “Give me your shirt, I’ll throw it in the washer. The dryer’s been dead forever, but I can hang it up or something.”

 

Too dumbfounded to decline or even feel embarrassed, Mingyu unbuttoned his shirt—the polo with the contrasting navy blue buttons—and pulled it over his head. Wonwoo nodded and walked back out, whistling some simple, familiar tune as he reached for a jug of detergent. “Your glasses alright?” he asked, craning his neck to see across the hallway.

 

“Yeah, fine,” Mingyu answered, reaching up to touch the crooked temples. “Well, better than they could be.”

 

Wonwoo grinned and let the washing machine door fall shut. “I wanna show you something.”

 

 

 

 

 

Seungcheol’s head is full of what Jihoon would describe as “hot air and deflated bubble wrap” most of the time, but there are occasions in which it’s full of kerosene and ammonia. Even in the cold and rain, or in this case at night, he drives with the windows rolled down. He says it helps him keep in touch with the immediate world, but Jihoon theorizes that if it gets too warm, he’ll lose his grip on reality. It’s like how he can’t sleep with socks on because he’s too aware of them on his feet.

 

Beside him in the passenger’s seat, Jihoon pulls his sweatshirt closed. It’s actually one of Jisoo’s sweatshirts, worn and frayed at the cuffs because Jisoo is always pushing his sleeves up and yanking them back down when he gets nervous, which is often. He looks over slowly, first at the glove box, then the little vent above it that does not work for shit—no matter how high he cranks the heat, he can still feel cold air whistling through his hollow bird bones. All the chemicals in Seungcheol’s head can’t keep them warm. He stares down at Seungcheol’s fingers poised on the shiny end of the gearshift lever, traces along the angles of his wrist becoming an elbow becoming a shoulder.

 

Jihoon looks back out the window at the neon signs and traffic lights before he looks at Seungcheol. It’s weird seeing him so serious. It borders difficult, uncanny even. It’s like when you see one of your parents cry over something devastating.

 

Neither of them say anything until Seungcheol pulls into the parking lot. 

 

When the automatic doors slide open, they spot Mingyu hunched over in a plastic chair with his face buried in his palms. Jihoon doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until Seungcheol kneels down in front of him and Mingyu falls out of the chair and into his chest.

 

“What happened?” he whispers, arms settling around his shoulders. Jihoon’s never heard Seungcheol speak at such a low volume, or at any low volume for that matter. It’s almost like he can’t decide if he wants Mingyu to hear him or not.

 

“I don’t know,” Mingyu hiccups against his throat. “They won’t let me see him because I’m ‘not family.’ I _am_ his family.”

 

Seungcheol hushes him and strokes the back of his neck. “I know. I know you are.”

 

Jihoon’s head is spinning. 

 

“How would we tell Jeonghan?”

 

“Don’t talk like that, Mingyu.”

 

Depersonalization is a psychological phenomena that can be described as the inexplicable feeling you get when you’re standing in the lobby of a hospital emergency room watching two of your favorite people in the world grovel before the debility of human life. Jihoon balls his hands into fists and buries them in the pockets of Jisoo’s frayed-sleeve sweatshirt. He runs the pads of his thumbs over his knuckles, counting them (one two three four) over and over until he’s sure he’s all still in one piece and in a physical body.

 

It doesn’t register that he’d closed his eyes—or had he? Maybe his visual processing system just stopped communicating with the rest of his brain—until he focuses on Seungcheol holding Mingyu against his chest, letting his head loll onto his shoulder. He does that upper-shoulder rub that dads do when their kids cry.

 

“Jihoon,” Seungcheol says quietly.

 

He looks up, but doesn’t open his mouth to say anything. He just widens his eyes just enough to show that he’d heard him.

 

“I’m going to see if I can talk to anyone. Stay with him, okay?”

 

Oh, fuck, no. Jihoon has been in enough sad hospitals to know that this would be uncomfortable, and he’d have to recruit every ounce of nonchalance to handle this without crying himself. He freezes like a scared rat, tail between his skinny legs, knuckle bones threatening to poke through the skin on the backs of his hands.

 

“Jihoon?”

 

He lets his breath out. “Alright, go on.”

 

Seungcheol gives Mingyu a second to let go of the hold he has around his chest and kneel in front of him, shoulder blades against the edge of the chair’s plastic seat. He grins with the right side of his mouth as he stands up, eyes downcast, and pats Jihoon’s cheek before he walks off. He started doing that when he realized Jihoon didn’t necessarily like to be hugged, but it never stopped feeling strange. There are calluses on his fingertips from gripping greasy wrenches at his grandfather’s auto body shop.

 

Though he tries not to, Jihoon ends up making eye contact. He sighs and sits down on the cold tiled floor next to him. Mingyu isn’t stupid, despite everything he’s ever said. It’s a terrible time to think this, so he doesn’t say it.

 

Instead, he grabs Mingyu at the fork of his neck and lowers his head onto his shoulder and runs his hand down his arm.

 

 

 

 

 

The first movie Mingyu could remember seeing was the _Lion King_. He watched it on an old VHS tape, nestled between his parents in their living room. His mother thought the characters were cute, and his father was way too into an animal remake of Hamlet, being an English teacher. Despite the whole villain persona, Mingyu liked Scar. He felt bad that he was named after the mark on his face, and that he was banished by his own brother. It didn’t seem fair. But his favorite character was Simba.

 

Following Wonwoo up a rope ladder that fell from the ceiling outside of his bedroom, he felt like Simba as he entered the elephant graveyard.

 

“What is this?” he asked, a bit taken aback.

 

“My sanctuary,” Wonwoo answered, closing the door in the floor behind them.

 

It was an ordinary attic, the kind where one could really only stand up in the very center, or in Mingyu’s case, not at all. There was a red and blue quilt folded beside the single, tiny window on the far side of the room, and sheets of carelessly-cut cardboard slathered with acrylic paint propped up against the exposed beams at either side. Drawings on yellowed paper with a child’s shaky hand were taped up with strips of black electrical tape, and there was a crate of paint shoved in a corner beside a large jar of paintbrushes.

 

“This is…” he mumbled, looking around. He spotted a patch of photographs, 4R sized and faded, adhered to the floor with putty. “Who is this?”

 

Wonwoo looked up from his sketchbook, brows raised. “My grandmother. After she died, I saved all the pictures from the trash.”

 

Mingyu knelt down to look. She was pretty, even in her older years, with the same pointed nose as Wonwoo and dimples. In every picture, she’s wearing coral colored lipstick. Wonwoo must have loved her a lot if he kept them.

 

“You look like her.”

 

“Yeah, genetics.”

 

Mingyu made a face and crawled over by him, kneeling on a space on the floor that wasn’t decorated or splotched with still-wet oil paint. “What’re you drawing?”

 

“Not sure yet,” Wonwoo answered, rolling a kneaded eraser between his fingers with his left hand, twirling a 6B pencil in the other.

 

“Aren’t you supposed to sketch with H pencils?”

 

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly what you would call, a law-abiding citizen. Exhibit A.” He reached for the quilt and tossed it in Mingyu’s lap. “I stole this from her house. During the estate sale.”

 

“Did she make this?” He unfolded it and laid it across his lap.

 

Wonwoo nodded, grinning to himself. “Yeah, she would sew everything. When I was a kid, I used to cut holes in my clothes so I could watch her fix them. I’m sure she knew I was doing it, but she never said anything about it.”

 

“My grandma’s the same,” Mingyu commented, fingers tracing the lines in a flannel patch. It must have been made of every imaginable piece of fabric. Denim, wool, cotton, corduroy in some places, jersey trimming. “She alters my clothes because nothing fits me.”

 

Wonwoo snorted. “Cause you’re like six-twenty?”

 

“I’m a freak of nature.”

 

“Dude. You want to meet real freaks of nature?”

 

 

 

 

 

“I got you a coffee,” Seungcheol says, holding a cup out to him.

 

“It’s four in the morning,” Jihoon replies flatly.

 

“It’s hot and you’re shivering.”

 

Jihoon had taken the borrowed sweatshirt off and draped it over Mingyu’s shoulders when he fell asleep with his head in his lap, so he was cold, but he wasn’t going to admit it. “Thanks,” he sighs, accepting the styrofoam cup. He holds it in both hands, letting the steam hit below his chin.

 

“So you didn’t talk to anyone, I take it.”

 

Seungcheol shakes his head. “No, I did. You want to know what happened?”

 

“Yes, no shit.”

 

“He was jumped on the way home, and I guess one of the guys had a knife.”

 

Jihoon cuts him off. “Alright, I don’t want to know anymore.”

 

“He called Mingyu before he called 911.”

 

“That sounds like his dumb ass.”

 

“Mingyu was the one that called. They wouldn’t let him in the ambulance, so he ran all the way here. No wonder he’s so tired.”

 

Mingyu sleeps like a hibernating animal, temple resting against the soft fabric of Jihoon’s sweatpants. The poor kid. 

 

“Why does shit like this happen?” Jihoon asks. He stares down into the cup of coffee like its surface is the viewfinder of a magic 8 ball, like maybe if he kept staring into it, a die with something cryptic would float up. _Because you are cursed! Who knows!_

 

Jihoon doesn’t need to turn to Seungcheol to know he’s frowning, forearms crossed over his folded-up knees.

 

“He’s going to be alright, though.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Seungcheol nodding. “He’d just passed out from shock. Didn’t need a transfusion, just had to be stitched up. But they’re keeping him because they think he might have a concussion.”

 

“How serious?”

 

“Not serious enough to warrant an MRI, but serious enough that they’re ordering an EEG.” He generally hates when Seungcheol throws around medical jargon he doesn’t understand, but this he actually does. The letters flicker off in his head—Magnetic resonance imaging, used to map the brain on a 3-dimensional plane, electroencephalogram, used to detect abnormalities in brainwave activity.

 

Jihoon swallows thickly. “When will they let Mingyu in to see him?”

 

“When one of them wakes up, I guess.”

 

 

 

 

 

The thing about Wonwoo was the way he could get a kid who’d never even been grounded before to skip first period history and meet him at the diner across the street from campus. He’d walked in apprehensively clutching the straps of his backpack, like the other customers would know he was cutting class and report him to the police. Wonwoo didn’t laugh at him for his misgivings, instead nodding at a group seated at the farthest table and gesturing for Mingyu to follow. He looked like Simba when he was confronted by the hyenas.

 

“Mingyu, friends. Friends, Mingyu.”

 

A boy with ashy black hair huffed. “That was a terrible introduction. No wonder the kid looks all Stockholm-y.”

 

Wonwoo groaned and shoved his bag under the table. “Fine. This is Jeonghan, the one that critiques everything I do like the mother I never had.”

 

“Well, go around the table?”

 

“Fucking Christ, yes, mother.” Wonwoo pushed a chair out for him and looked at him expectantly. “Take a seat and I’ll continue with the formalities.”

 

Mingyu slid down beside him, still wearing his backpack, and struggling as a result, and peered around the table.

 

“Dweeb ass next to my dear mother is Jisoo, you’ll get used to him.” Jisoo lifted his eyes from his stack of pancakes to wave, then poured half the bottle of syrup onto them. “And the fact that he does not let any force on mother earth interrupt him when he’s eating.

 

“Circling left, now, this is Seungcheol. He plays sports or something fucking stupid and annoying like that.” Seungcheol held out his hand to shake it, to which Wonwoo rolled his eyes. “Jihoon, the man of my nightmares. He may say something after he’s had caffeine, but I wouldn’t get too hopeful. And Soonyoung—he drinks all coffee with a straw and only takes his medication when he feels like it.”

 

“I take it when I need it,” Soonyoung muffled defensively, lips closed around a red straw stabbed into a plastic cup of what appeared to be coffee.

 

Wonwoo kissed his teeth. “Sunday at 3:00 a.m. after sucking down five screwdrivers is when you need it?”

 

Soonyoung took another drink and agreed, “Especially then.”

 

Abandoning his greasy, eggs, Jeonghan turned to Mingyu, resting his chin in his palm. “So you’re the Amazon child Wonwoo was on about.”

 

Mingyu immediately turned to Wonwoo to glare accusingly. Amazon child?

 

“What? It’s not every day I meet someone cool in detention. It’s usually just me and that dude that I’m waiting on to blow up the school.”

 

Jisoo set his fork down. “Speaking of that kid, do you know anyone who might be interested in joining the debate team? I quit the transfer student welcoming committee and I need an extracurricular, but if we don’t have enough people on the team, we’re getting dropped.”

 

“I could join,” Mingyu said quickly.

 

Wonwoo put a firm hand down on the table. “Alright, you can _not_ join the debate team.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because it’s full of people who think they’re intellectuals but aren’t—“ He looked back across the table. “No offense, Jisoo—and the topics are always stupid.”

 

Jisoo clicked his tongue. “Not true. Our upcoming debate is on euthanasia.”

 

“I could debate about that, I think,” Mingyu said, nodding to himself. “Like, euthanasia is really important?”

 

“Well, let’s see you in action, you huge, majestic creature of the Amazon,” Jeonghan coaxed, handing him a spoon to use as a microphone.

 

“Well, uh. Lots of patients need euthanasia. Like babies with cancer, people that need their legs cut off, people that need organ transplants, the elderly…”

 

Soonyoung let the straw fall out of his mouth. “Are you talking about euthanasia or anesthesia?” he asked carefully.

 

Wonwoo grinned at him, watching his expression shift from _That was probably a pretty good argument_ to _What the fuck have I done_. “No debate team for you, buddy. This confirms it.”

 

 

 

 

 

Through their years together, Mingyu learned a lot of things about Wonwoo. He won’t eat chicken if it’s warm, because he’d grown up eating cold leftovers brought over by his neighbors. He’s allergic to flowers, but he likes them, so he paints them instead. And he’s a light sleeper—if it so much as drizzles, he’ll wake up.

 

So it doesn’t surprise Mingyu when his eyes open at the touch of fingers on the back of his needle-poked hand. But at the same time it does, because on the folded-up plane nestled in the very center of Mingyu’s brain, he worried that he’d stay asleep. He made the first fold because he was being stupid, the second because Wonwoo would say the same, and then he’d balled it up because he couldn’t fathom it at all.

 

“Hey,” Mingyu whispers, wrist frozen to the edge of the mattress.

 

“Am I dead?”

 

“No.”

 

“Oh, thank god. That means you’re not dead either. And that’d be shitty.”

 

A nurse on the other side of the bed smiles. “He’s just a little groggy from the pain meds,” she explains needlessly. She adjusts a bag of fluids hung by a shiny metal wire, and checks the readings of a monotonous beeping machine for something Mingyu isn’t medically versed enough to know about. Though he knows it's her job, he would love for her to leave.

 

When she finally does, however, he realizes he doesn’t know what to say. Wonwoo’s eyes are tired. Not lifeless or groggy as the nurse had suggested, but tired. “Did you want me to go so you can sleep?”

 

“No.”

 

“Does your head still hurt?”

 

Wonwoo shakes his head, smiling weakly to one side. “Nah, I can barely feel anything.”

 

“I’m glad you’re not in any pain.”

 

“I don’t even remember what pain feels like.”

 

“Are you tired?”

 

“I don’t want to sleep. I can’t. There’s a robot in my right peripheral field that won’t shut the fuck up.”

 

Mingyu chuckles, blowing air through his nose. “Why did you call me?” he asks deliberately, turning Wonwoo’s hand over in his palm. As selfish as it is, he does it because he hates the sight of the needle. He’s fine with the stilted manners of every nurse and doctor, and the harsh odor of cleaning fluid, and even the sickly blue bedsheets, but not needles. He’s never liked them.

 

“Hm?”

 

“You called me. Don’t people usually call 911 when they get stabbed?”

 

“If you thought you were going to die, who’s voice would you want to hear: an emergency dispatcher or your favorite person in the world?”

 

There’s a tap on the doorframe.

 

“Hope we’re not interrupting anything.” Seungcheol, with Jihoon barely a foot behind him, has appeared in the doorway.

 

“You brought Papa Bear and Goldilocks with you?” Wonwoo asks weakly.

 

“Glad you’re not dead,” Jihoon says.

 

“Of course I’m not dead. God knew I needed to see Seungcheol’s Prince Albert in the dickflesh before I enter his kingdom. Or whatever.”

 

“I’m not sure what’s going to disappoint you more,” Jihoon begins, brushing past Seungcheol to draw the blinds shut. Morning light was starting to spill in. “The fact that he took the ring out or the fact that there’s no way you’re getting into heaven.”

 

“Alright, well not to be gross, but can I have the ring?”

 

 

 

 

 

Mingyu’s parents had always been quick and attentive to the things he said, so they weren’t immediately opposed to him bringing Wonwoo into their house. After all, he was the first friend he’d spoken so highly of. His first real friend at all. His mother was struck by him immediately.

 

“All your friends are so skinny,” she fussed, opening the refrigerator. The only other friend he’d brought over was Seokmin. He’d been scrawny back then too, still lacking in the puberty and muscles departments.

 

She said stubbornly that she wouldn’t let him leave the kitchen until he’d eaten something, but ended up making an entire meal. Mingyu sat on the countertop, bent forward to avoid hitting his head on the cupboard, watching them sit at the table talking. At school, Wonwoo always looked so stark, but in his kitchen, Mingyu thought he looked like a child.

 

Maybe his parents saw the same lost child, because they were just as welcoming a month later when Mingyu carried him in and wordlessly laid him on the couch. Trusting her son’s nature, his mother just headed to the kitchen to work her magic.

 

 

 

He was out cold for another two hours. When he awoke, Mingyu’s mother was in the armchair beside the couch with a cup of tea in her hands. It was strange to really look at her, because Mingyu looked much more like her than his father. They had the same caring eyes and sharp smiles.

 

“Are you feeling better?” she asked, putting the back of her hand against his forehead.

 

He nodded, looking around for Mingyu.

 

“I made him go to bed,” she said, answering a question he didn’t ask.

 

“I can go.”

 

“No, no, it’s fine.” She reached for a fleece throw blanket on the arm of the couch and spread it over him. “It’s late, stay here. I’ll get you boys up for school.”

 

She watched as he slept, wondering where his parents were, where his mother was, and if there was anyone decent in his life. It broke her heart, but she was comforted knowing that Mingyu would take good care of him.

 

 

 

 

 

The spring musical came and went with Seokmin’s bouquets of brilliant yellow daisies—roses were too dramatic and romance-laden for his taste—and Wonwoo pulled his work from the art show. Before the gallery could be seen by judges, he’d retrieved each of them, mounted on black matte board, and stuffed them into his nylon portfolio. He didn’t bother to take down his name card.

 

_Where are you_.

 

Mingyu looked solemnly at the message. The clock read 1:43 a.m., too strange of a time to come up with a suitable fib to toss his parents’ way should they ask. He’d have had to come clean, which was far too responsible a decision to make. Instead he bit down on the pencil between his teeth and typed back a reply.

 

_Why?_

 

_I’m lonely._

 

The back door was always open, he had learned, because the lock broke a year or two back, and Wonwoo’s father was much more apt to put money towards anything but home improvement. He breathed in the familiar stale air, noticing that all the lights were off. Wonwoo’s mom was probably asleep. He’d never even seen her in the many times he’d come by.

 

“Over here,” he heard from the doorway leading into the living room. Wonwoo sat on the floor with his back against the old-fashioned register, head hung limply, too heavy for his shoulders.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Mingyu flipped on the lights.

 

Beneath his unkempt hair, there were purple circles under each eye. His lips were crusted with blood at the corners. Blue bruises bloomed like oblong flowers on the backs of his hands. He’d peered up, slowly, expression constricted with either pain or indifference.

 

“Oh my god,” Mingyu mumbled under his breath, dropping to his knees in front of him.

 

“I’m okay,” Wonwoo assured him, holding up a discolored hand. Mingyu reached out for it, examining the blood coagulating on his knuckles, then turning it over to warm it between his own.

 

“What happened to you?” They felt like ice.

 

“It seems I’ve gotten what the boys call ‘the shit beaten out of me,’” he slurred, letting Mingyu gently brush his bangs to the side to assess the damage.

 

“Can you stand?”

 

“This room is moving around me. This corner, this room, is the center of the world. It’s not even just spinning, it’s moving.”

 

“Are you drunk?” Mingyu asked.

 

“Well I’m not sober, that’s for certain.”

 

“Let me help you up. You’re still bleeding.”

 

Wonwoo pulled his hand back, retreating against the warm metal behind him. “I’m okay.”

 

“You’re _not_ ,” Mingyu said with more force than he meant to use. He took a breath and offered out his hand. “Now, let me help you up.”

 

 

 

“Is this rock bottom?” Wonwoo muttered to himself, wincing as the hot water hit his skin. “Sitting in a bathtub, doped up on God knows what?”

 

Mingyu didn’t really listen. He concentrated his attention on the mud on Wonwoo’s knobby knees that must have seeped through the holes in his jeans, and the orange-red smears on his cheeks (there were vertical streaks in them, where his eyes must have welled up with tears of some kind—pain or sadness or both), and washed the colors down the drain. He let the water run until he couldn’t see them anymore.

 

“Thank you, Mingyu.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Mingyu shut the tap off and reached for a washcloth hung on the towel rack. He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he didn’t. Instead, he wet the cloth in the sink, then knelt back down at the edge of the tub. He pushed Wonwoo’s fringe to the side again and asked, “Is this okay?”

 

Wonwoo hesitated. It could have been that he wasn’t sure if it was okay, or it could have been that he wanted Mingyu to say something else. But it wasn’t a long pause. He nodded, focusing on some characterless spot on the floor.

 

“I’m sorry,” Mingyu apologized when he noticed him wincing.

 

“I love you.”

 

He paused with the washcloth dripping in his hand. “Let me get the other side of your face.”

 

Wonwoo tipped his head to the side obediently, eyes falling shut. He continued despite Mingyu’s sustained silence, “I’m not really an expert on how it works, but I love you as much as I know how to.”

 

Breathing shallowly, Wonwoo opened one eye. When he looked at Mingyu, his eyes were red and tears were threatening to spill over. He sat up straighter, reaching for his arm. “What’s wrong?”

 

Mingyu shook his head and went back to scrubbing bloodstains from Wonwoo’s face. “Nothing.”

 

“Is it because I said I loved you?”

 

He shook his head again, rougher. “It’s because you make me happy. And you’re the first person who hasn’t made me feel like I’m just this fucking freak with no friends. And because I don’t know how to help you. I can’t help you.”

 

“You’re helping me right now.”

 

 

 

 

 

“I can’t believe you,” Jeonghan groans, throwing himself onto the waxy, overstuffed chair by the window. Hospital furniture is designed to withstand all that it may encounter, and as a consequence, it barely serves its function.

 

What Jeonghan can’t believe is the fact that Junhui has brought the least family-friendly care package into a hospital. It contains three packs of cigarettes—Newport menthol 100s, Marlboro Black Menthols, and American Spirits (because Junhui had completely forgotten which kind were the right ones and he was too full of it to ask anyone), a NyQuil bottle drained of its original contents and replaced with vodka, and a box of thin mints. Alright, so the girl scout cookies weren’t so crude, but nonetheless, Jeonghan looks at him disapprovingly when the contents spill from the plastic Walgreens bag.

 

“I need you to stop trying to ruin Second Christmas for me,” Wonwoo says, ripping open a sleeve of cookies and sending thin mints flying across the room.

 

Junhui frowns, leaning against the window frame. “I can’t tell if you’re judging me because I brought this or because I filled the bottle with Smirnoff and not Fireball.”

 

Jeonghan groans. “Well it’s not the latter, just you watch me leave with that.”

 

Wonwoo pulls the bottle closer. “Hey, my cough syrup bootleg, get your own.”

 

“What’s the etymology behind bootleg?” Vernon asks, knelt on the ground in search for stray thin mints.

 

“I mean, the long running definition dates back to the prohibition era, when booze smugglers supposedly hid alcohol in their boots,” Junhui answers. “But it’s questionable.”

 

“Wild, why didn’t they just use those bags you stick under your shirt?”

 

“I think those are more of a modern era invention.”

 

“Designed and engineered with me in mind,” Jeonghan adds.

 

Vernon hoists himself back up and returns a cookie to the sleeve, then watches with mild horror as Wonwoo nonchalantly feeds it to Seokmin. He brushes his hands off on the front of his shirt and turns to Jeonghan. “Speaking of you, I’m actually writing a paper on alcoholics for my psychology class—can I interview you?”

 

He brings a hand to his chest. “Vernon, I’m honored.”

 

Wonwoo makes a face. “I don’t think you can generalize his behavior to the entire alcoholic population, kid.”

 

Soonyoung shrugs. “He could always write a case study.”

 

“Yes,” Vernon agrees. “I’ve always wanted to be a principle investigator. I’ll publish it in a fancy psychology journal and give it a hokey ass title. ‘The Little Liver That Could.’”

 

“Speaking of livers,” Jisoo starts.

 

Vernon lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Here we go.”

 

 

 

 

 

They were lying on Wonwoo’s bed right before it happened, on top of the wrinkled comforter, listening to crickets through the cracked-open window. Mingyu was trying to come up with a way to ask what had happened without being invasive, and Wonwoo was curiously watching a spider in the corner of the ceiling. She’d caught a fruit fly, anesthetized it with her venom, and wrapped it up in silken string to save for later.

 

“So that was weird,” Wonwoo murmured. “Sorry you had to see that.”

 

Mingyu snapped his head towards him, not entirely sure why he was angry. Or if he was angry. At three in the morning, it’s hard to tell what you’re feeling. Wonwoo just blinked at him, expression unchanging. Maybe it would have hurt to make any other face. Take a breath. The muscles in Mingyu’s neck relaxed: the sternomastoid connecting his collar and breastbones to his skull, the splenius capitis strapping his head on his shoulders like duct tape.

 

“Do your parents know where you are?” Wonwoo asked.

 

Mingyu nodded.

 

“And do they think you’re losing your gourd?”

 

“Is your eye okay?”

 

“Superb. Why are you sidestepping?”

 

He hadn’t noticed doing it. When he was younger, his mother thought he just had selective hearing. As it turned out, he was just born to skirt things he preferred to not touch on.

 

“You’re doing it, too,” Mingyu groused. “You’re always doing it.”

 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

 

Mingyu softened his expression. “Are you sobering up, do you think?”

 

Wonwoo shifted closer. “I think so.”

 

The last real conversation they had was two days before the art show. It wasn’t much more than a few words; Mingyu wouldn’t remember later what they’d said, but he can remember that they’d spoken. There were sooty charcoal stains all over Wonwoo’s blue shirt that may have been permanent. The other students fawned over his display, and he hated it. Mingyu can’t remember a thing he’d said, but he remembered what they’d said. They tried to interpret the superimposed silhouettes over the smears of chalky tempera paint. They applied themselves to it, stealing bits and pieces until they were just flat shapes on a wall.

 

“I really think you should go before he comes back.”

 

“Before who comes back?”

 

He winced. “My fucking dad. He’ll lose his shit if he sees you.”

 

Mingyu paused. The muscles tightened back up again, the ones in his neck and arms and chest, as it all dawned on him.

 

“He did this,” Mingyu said bemusedly.

 

Wonwoo propped himself up on one elbow. “Yup, you need to go.”

 

“He hit you.”

 

“Mingyu, seriously. Go.”

 

All those times they’d stayed out late, drinking powdered hot chocolate and soggy diner fries, and the times Mingyu would wake up to calls begging for him to come get him. Wonwoo was never avoiding Mingyu; he was avoiding his father, but still trying to find a way back home. The attic with the child’s drawings, they were his, from years ago. The silhouettes of a little boy in the corners of his paintings, running down pasted-in staircases, opening doors in a woman’s eyes. He’d been telling him the truth the whole time.

 

“Come with me,” Mingyu offered. It was more like pleading than anything.

 

“I can’t.”

 

“Yeah, you can. My parents won’t care. We can come up with something on the way if you’d rather have a cover story, just—“

 

Wonwoo made a feeble attempt to stand, and settled for sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m not going anywhere,” he told him. “You’re going home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“But—“

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, I promise.”

 

Downstairs, a door opened, slamming against the wall, and then back into its frame. The deadbolt locked behind whoever had entered.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” Wonwoo hissed under his breath. Somehow he found it in his compromised state to push off the floor and drag Mingyu down the hall. He yanked down the rope ladder leading to the attic, and pointed upwards. “Go first. I’ll be right behind you.”

 

 

 

 

 

Soonyoung isn’t a smoker. He tells people he has asthma, but he doesn’t. So when the conditions are right (read: Jihoon waves a pack in front of his face while he’s curled in on himself at the bus stop across the street from the hospital), he isn’t medically obliged to turn down a cigarette. He upturns a brow at Jihoon, hands clasped against his shins.

 

“I don’t smoke?”

 

Jihoon plops down beside him. “Well you look like you should start.”

 

He makes a face and accepts it when Jihoon shoves it in his face.

 

“You’re kind of a bad influence,” he says mildly. He holds it between his fingers like something he knows he shouldn’t have.

 

Jihoon shrugs and gropes in his pocket for a lighter, but he’s still wearing Jisoo’s sweatshirt. He’d have a better chance of finding the holy shroud of Jesus Christ than a lighter in the pocket of Jisoo’s clothing. He cusses under his breath and looks down the street at the gas station.

 

Just as he’s about to get up and shell out the permissible $1.49 for a book of matches, he hears, “You know those are bad for you, right?”

 

It’s Junhui. He produces a lighter from the back pocket of his jeans and lights up a Parliament, then presses it into Soonyoung’s unoccupied hand. Jihoon thinks Junhui is probably worse for Soonyoung than smoking, but he doesn’t say anything because he’s going to die if he doesn’t get a nicotine fix. He does, however, consider it once he feels the nostalgic dizziness of a buzz. It feels like silk around his brain.

 

“We’re all going some way,” Soonyoung mutters.

 

“No shit,” Junhui mutters, sitting beside him. Their knees almost touch. “It’s like it’s either carcinoma or getting stabbed. Those are our options.”

 

He says it so disparagingly that it makes Soonyoung laugh, and for some unnameable reason that really fucks Jihoon’s shit. Let the record show that he does not hate anyone in particular, but he cares a lot about Soonyoung, he even trusts him. It’d be incongruous to not trust someone who’s been keeping their mouth shut about every shitty thing there is to know about you for seven years.

 

“I wish I’d get stabbed,” Jihoon muses, peeling paper from the filter. “Hypothetically speaking. Wouldn’t have to take finals.”

 

Soonyoung seems to remember something. “Did you get your twenty thousand word count done for Novel Development yet?”

 

Novel Development, AKA English 405 (AKA the bane of Junhui’s existence), is the only class Junhui and Soonyoung have together. They’d decided to enroll in the same section on Thanksgiving over stolen Skyy Blue courtesy of Jeonghan.

 

Junhui shakes his head. “Nope.”

 

“Me either,” Soonyoung admits, messing with his bangs. Jihoon can’t help but notice it, because he always does that when he’s nervous.

 

“Maybe writing together wasn’t the best idea. Every time we try it, we just get drunk.”

 

Soonyoung stops paying attention to which hand is doing what and almost burns his hair. “Yeah, well. Getting drunk beats the hell out of Charles Dickens-ing to offset the fact that I’m in a permanent state of writer’s block.”

 

Plucking the cigarette from his hand to prevent incident, Junhui asks, “Were you headed back to the dorms?”

 

“Yeah. I have to get the draft done at some point,” Soonyoung says bitterly. His speech is stiff and constructed, built up to hide something.

 

“Interesting.”

 

Jihoon knows they’re fucking, but he’s not going to confront either of them about it. There wouldn’t be much of a point; no one’s doing anything wrong. College is the time where you willfully make poorly calculated decisions. Soonyoung is a big boy now, and he can figure it out on his own. Just like Jihoon did.

 

The bus pulls up and Soonyoung looks at Jihoon expectantly.

 

He shakes his head, quirking up a corner of his mouth as he stands. “I’m just going to wait for Seungcheol to finish playing house in there. He thinks he’s Wonwoo’s dad or something. I’ll see you around.”

 

“Ah, okay. We’ll catch you at the table.”

 

 

 

 

 

They stayed in the attic in silence for thirty minutes, all the while listening to every door open and slam back shut. Mingyu pictured a man clumsily bumping into walls, unable to walk a straight line. He didn’t yell out until he reached what must have been Wonwoo’s bedroom. Wonwoo’s mother screamed back at him, voice garbled, like she was under water.

 

His attention was broken when Wonwoo smacked his shoulder. “Alright, if he calls me, I have to go down. And you have to stay here. Swear right now that you will stay here and not attempt to do anything dumb.”

 

“I swear.”

 

“Swear on your life.”

 

Mingyu huffed and held up a pinkie. “I swear on my life.”

 

Wonwoo grinned and linked their pinkies together. “I think you’re the best thing about my life.”

 

“You’re hiding in an attic because of me.”

 

“Dude, I’ve been hiding here since I was like seven.”

 

Mingyu could feel his heart disconnecting from veins and arteries and flooding his chest cavity with inky blood. He regretted not just saying he loved him earlier, because there was no way of making it fit into place at the moment. It was too quiet between them and too loud below them. Nothing felt right to say.

 

Then there came the sound of crying, and another door slamming. Then the front door. They echoed all together, one after another, combining into a subtle, dismal chord. Wonwoo carefully stood up and dropped down in front of the window, moving the yellowed curtain to one side. He caught a car driving off, but not his father’s. His mother’s.

 

“She left without me again,” he said quietly.

 

“Wonwoo?”

 

“She’s just going to get more pills,” he sighed, spinning on his heels. “Because I took them.”

 

“Took them and hid them, or took them and…”

 

“I threw them out. I used to take them. But they really don’t make much of a difference. If you’re not in physical, excruciating pain, they don’t do anything. Like, yeah you’re all fucking goofy for a little bit, and everything is great; the world is terrible but you don’t care. But without them, fuck. The world is just terrible.” He threw his head around as he talked, looking between the walls, dizzying himself with each crooked turn.

 

Mingyu sat still, knelt beside the little door in the floor. “Well… promise me you won’t take them again,” he said lowly.

 

Wonwoo stopped pacing and looked at him, looking small and bewildered. He thought of Simba. “I swear on my life.”

 

 

 

 

 

_iMessage (3)_

 

Mingyu: I think you’re sleeping but holy shit I got accepted into my graphic design program

Mingyu: I got the letter today and I can’t stop looking at it. It feels like I’m dreaming what the FUCK

Mingyu: Thank you for believing in me

 

 

 

 

 

“Honestly, of all of us, I always thought you’d be the one to get stabbed.”

 

Wonwoo makes a stupid face at Seungkwan from across the table, but laughs. It finally doesn’t hurt now that the stitches have been removed. “Yeah, you and me both. The grim reaper will just not fuck off and leave us alone.”

 

They’re back at the mall, and it’s finals week. For a time of mass chaos, the atmosphere is calm. Seungcheol is, for once, not dicking around with his phone, but studying for his chemistry exam. At the far end of the table, in his own little world, Jisoo is eating the rest of the lukewarm Frontega chicken panini that Jeonghan decided was not that delicious after eating half of it. Mingyu flashes his acceptance letter when he arrives, still wearing his Game Stop nametag, and Seokmin jumps up and cheers.

 

Jihoon continues pretending he’d like to be anywhere else, abstaining from conversation to instead scroll through social media. “I think Vernon’s on a date,” he says blandly, palm pressed into his cheek. “He posted a picture of two Starbucks cups with no caption. Isn’t he deep and cryptic.”

 

Always prompt to stick his head where it’s not asked to be, Jeonghan pounds on the tabletop with an open hand. “I knew it.”

 

Jihoon furrows his brows. “You knew what?”

 

“That Vernon and Minghao are a thing. A thing that get Starbucks together.”

 

“That hardly holds water. Soonyoung’s there today; he would see them.”

 

“I love Soonyoung, and I respect him,” Jeonghan prefaces. “But he is _oblivious_. To everything. Those two could climb up onto that counter and kiss and he’d just stand there in his cute little visor and ask if they wanted whipped cream.”

 

Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “Be that as it may, you still know nothing.”

 

“I know everything.”

 

“What’s my passcode?” he quizzes.

 

“Mingyu’s birthday. You ugly bastard.”

 

Before Wonwoo can wipe the smug smile off Jeonghan's face, Vernon walks up sucking on a bubblegum pink popsicle. He's somehow managed to get popsicle juice down inside of his shirt. The pink of the juice and the light blue of his shirt make a soft purple. "What's up?" he muffles indistinctly, peeling the sticky fabric away from his chest. He pouts, but keeps eating and successively makes a bigger mess. 

 

"Not much, just the usual. Explaining again to Wonwoo that I am the center of the universe." Jeonghan grins coyly at him as he pulls out the chair across from him. "How was your date?"

 

"My what?" Vernon asks stupidly.

 

"Your Big Gay Starbucks Date," Wonwoo elaborates with a flourish. "The one you posted photo evidence of on Instagram." Jihoon slides his phone across the table unhelpfully.

 

Vernon purses his lips and locks the screen. "I could have just drank two S'mores Frappuccinos. I have that kind of power."

 

 

Jeonghan smirks. "What would your defense be if Minghao showed up smelling like graham crackers, chocolate, and marshmallows?"

 

Vernon swallows. "I...ah. Perhaps that he also had a S'mores Frap."

 

Wonwoo and Jeonghan exchange glances and then focus on Vernon again. "He stammered, didn't he, Wonwoo?"

 

"He did. Like a fifth grader reading in front of the class."

 

"And you know what this means?"

 

"Big Gay Starbucks Date confirmed."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: quick catch up! its been over two months and i'm so sorry omg. i don't have any excuse aside from the fact that well... i'm a college student and also a part-time real adult. and also because i suck. but the semester is over now so updates should be somewhat regular until the fall term starts back up.  
>  
> 
> anyways, thank you for reading! i hope it was worth the wait. the next chapter will hopefully be less dark and depressing but who knows. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ i love dying


	8. random access

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jihoon is a good friend except when he isn't.

Jihoon wakes up to his bedroom door being thrust open. His mother barges in wearing luxe genuine leather pumps made in Italy. He faintly heard the clicking of the heels on the hardwood floors of the hall before she came in, but he had been certain it was just the hooves of Satan. As it turns out, a visit from her is much worse.

 

“Get out of bed,” she demands with a huff, hand white knuckled around the doorknob. “It’s 12:00 p.m. for God’s sake.”

 

He untangles himself from the blankets and sheets and groans feebly when she opens the blinds and lets the sunlight tumble in. She shouldn’t even be here. It’s Saturday. She’s always busy—even on Saturdays—with her mysterious, administrative job that she never shuts up about.

 

She then storms back out of his room, down the hall, and into the living room. She erupts at his father, veins in her forehead likely to be threatening to pop through the skin like rattlesnakes.

 

“Why is Jihoon still in bed?” she asks him.

 

He lies back down and pulls the comforter over his head, hangnails catching on the pilled fabric. He could probably bury himself in blankets and still hear this woman’s screaming.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean he is still in bed at noon.” Jihoon can hear her voice drawing closer. She’s coming back.

 

“He’s a teenager?” his father offers, just behind her.

 

“He’s nineteen years old; he’s an adult, and he’s still moping around like a moody teenager. You said he was getting better.”

 

“For the love of God, just because he isn’t joining the army doesn’t mean he’s fucked in the head. Let the kid sleep.”

 

She pulls the covers off of him and turns back to his father, who stands bewildered in the doorway with his cold coffee. He’s probably regretting all the money he spent on that divorce, because even though all that paperwork was done, he’s still subjected to her showing up unannounced and highlighting all of his faults.

 

“He looks like he’s lost twenty pounds. Do you ever pay attention to your fucking kid?”

 

His father sets the mug down on an armoire. “You haven’t seen him in two months.”

 

Jihoon sighs and pushes past them both. “I’m fine, I’m getting up.”

 

They continue to argue, shaking the walls of the little house. One day, they’re going to scream so loud at each other that the support beams will give out and the foundations will collapse and they’ll be crushed by the manifestation of the things they both tried walking away from. Furniture and framed photographs and superficialities that adorned a shell where a family used to live.

 

 

 

 

 

It was two years ago, the graduation ceremony for the class of 2014. Soonyoung really only needed one ticket, so he gave the other to Mingyu. Wonwoo felt it was only fitting to give both of his tickets to Mingyu’s parents, because his dad wouldn’t want to be there, and his mom would probably just pass out in the auditorium and he’d never live it down. The other parents and graduates would say under their breaths, “ _That explains the Jeon kid._ ”

 

Wonwoo and Soonyoung had whispered to each other for the entirety of the event, and tickled the back of Jisoo’s neck with their tassels, only quieting when Junhui stood at the podium to give his valedictorian speech. Not because it was interesting really, but because it was remarkable how someone so hungover could be so eloquent.

 

Tucked behind the piano, Jihoon hid his face behind his cap so his mother couldn’t take pictures and post them to social media, pretending to be proud of him. It was bad enough that she’d come ready to be shot for _Vanity Fair_. When the student body president paused his address to thank him for his musical contribution to the ceremony, he’d rolled his eyes and pressed his elbow down on the G1 through A1 keys to show just how much he didn’t care for the pomp and circumstance of it all.

 

All too expected of him, Seungcheol promptly tripped and dropped his diploma as he walked off the stage. His mother hung a photo of him mid-fall in the main hallway between school pictures and family shots. Jeonghan requested a print to keep in his wallet, which she all too happily granted.

 

The only person who didn’t smile in the group picture that Mingyu’s mother insisted be taken was Jisoo, because ever since the caps had been thrown in the air and people started yelling, he had no idea what was going on…

 

 

 

 

 

As Vernon walks up to the table, he hears Wonwoo yell very angrily, “I do _not_ look like a Fueled by Ramen reject.”

 

Puzzled, he gives him a head-to-toe once-over, taking in the rips and frays in his black jeans, and the god-awful lines on the front of his shirt that can only indicate that he genuinely enjoys listening to Joy Division, topped off with a charcoal denim button-down. “I mean, you kinda do, man.”

 

Wonwoo makes a growling noise. “You watch your ass, Starbucks Date.”

 

Vernon sighs as he throws himself into the nearest chair. “What were you guys even talking about?”

 

“Thank you, Vernon,” Jeonghan says, extending his hand out as if to thank him. “What was the point here, again?”

 

“There was a point?” Jihoon asks.

 

“There was. Damn it, Wonwoo, I get it. You hate your coworkers. You hate working with them and they’re all just mad they couldn’t get hired at Hot Topic and had to settle for Hot Topic’s weird, nymphomaniacal cousin, which you happen to fit way too well into.”

 

Buttoning his flannel, Wonwoo just smiles sweetly at him. “I love it when you flirt with me.”

 

Jeonghan’s eye twitches. “Die soon.”

 

Soonyoung puts a hand up. “Hey, no dead Wonwoo jokes, it’s too soon.”

 

“I mean, it would be too soon if he was actually dead, sure.”

 

“I think it’s too soon now, too.”

 

Wonwoo nods. “Yeah, listen to Angel Face. It’s too soon. You almost lost me forever.”

 

Barely listening anymore, Jihoon scrolls through his phone, thinking about how much the Apple software developers just don’t care anymore about functionality, because when he turns his phone to the side to check out the dick pic he’s just been snapped, the app won’t close out when he tries to swipe it away. Growling to himself, he just presses the home button, and decides to check something more anodyne. Like his email.

 

There’s a new message from his therapist’s office. _You cancelled your last appointment. It’s time to reschedule._ The receptionist probably wrote it, in between checking in other dead-eyed kids and corresponding with patients who’ve gone AWOL.

 

He deletes the message and looks back up. Vernon is talking and waving his arms around.

 

“So Chan is stuck in his locker and he’s yelling the combination to me and the girl’s basketball team is standing there in the hallway…”

 

Jihoon never has any fucking clue what Vernon is on about. He’s just as much a word fountain about every event to ever happen in his life as Mingyu is with his miracle of life stories. However, his gestures are enthralling. It should be physiologically impossible for one to move their arms in such a way.

 

“Anyways,” Vernon continues. “The day ended with me eating half a jar of pickles and three of those potato burritos from Taco Bell so I can’t say it was bad.”

 

“Absolutely riveting,” Jeonghan says dryly. “Are we doing anything on Wednesday?”

 

 

 

 

 

After the commencement, Soonyoung had waved goodbye to everyone, promising to meet back at Jeonghan’s rich estranged father’s new house downtown for celebratory festivities. He’d shed the uncomfortable nylon robe and tucked his diploma under his arm; he wasn’t sure at all where his cap had disappeared to.

 

His father started the car, and they sat with their seatbelts buckled, staring through the windshield at the stream of school colors and a carnival of pastels wandering around the parking lot like unpinned sheep. The car was old; it needed a few minutes to simmer down before it was put into gear, otherwise the engine would stall.

 

While they waited, his father reached over and opened the glove box, hitting his knees with the door. He turned to him and smiled apologetically, and then pulled an envelope from the little shelf inside.

 

“This is for you,” he said softly. “From your mom.”

 

Soonyoung felt thrown off his axis, like he’d just woken up from a very long and strange dream. He held the letter in his lap, not sure what would happen if he opened it.

 

“She wrote it when she was in the hospital.” His father’s voice hushes to a whisper so it doesn't break. “She said to give it to you when you graduated.”

 

He lets go of it and clenches his fists against his legs, until little crescent moons are dug into the heels of his hands.

 

“I’ll read it at home later.”

 

His father nodded, and as he did, the engine quieted. He shifted the car into first, and drove home without another word.

 

They pulled into the parking slab, flattening the yellow weeds that sprouted up from the cracks. Once up the stairs, Soonyoung tossed his diploma, the cheap pleather certificate holder, and the letter onto his desk. He slipped out of his Special Occasion clothes and threw on the jeans he’d worn to school the day before and a shirt he should have given back to Jeonghan weeks ago.

 

By the time he showed up outside Jeonghan’s father’s loft, Jisoo was already lecturing Wonwoo as he poured cheap vodka into a measuring cup.

 

 

 

 

 

A block south of the fish mall is an undistinguished office building that has the look that would suggest that it’s full of nothingness. Maybe a copier, a water cooler, some people in nice clothes, with a vending machine in the lobby that makes weird noises and discourages the employees from staying late at the office. No one can really speak to the contents of other floors, but the third isfull of lion tamers and medicated lions. Jihoon is a lion that can’t be tamed with a chair or a whip or a prescription of Lexapro.

 

He sits uncomfortably in a leather chair in a corner of suite 301, contemplating the lonely tree situated by the reception desk. It’s looked the same for two years; it’s probably plastic. It must be a pain for the custodial staff to dust between the man-made branches to keep it from looking like what it really is. He knows how that is.

 

By 2:00 o’clock on the dot, the Doctor—that’s what he calls her—steps out into the lobby and greets him. He stands and breaks off one of the waxy fake leaves as he walks past the desk and down the hall to her office.

 

The Doctor’s is too small and green for his liking, but at least her plants are real. There are two hanging baskets overflowing with English ivy, and a variety of succulents in a ceramic planter on the cherry wood desk. The perimeter of the room is lined with oak shelves stuffed with books that likely haven’t seen the light of day since The Doctor earned her Ph.D. Sometimes when he’s sitting on the olive corduroy couch, Jihoon reads their spines and wonders who was bored enough to write some of them.

 

She never sits at her desk when he’s there. Instead, she sits in a lime-colored armchair by the window and stares at the paintings on the walls. They’re kitschy, the kind of thing you’d expect to see in a cheap motel. Meanwhile, Jihoon sits on the middle cushion of the ugly couch. There are many things that are allowed to be paisley, but green couches are not one of them.

 

“How have you been?” she asks, sliding his notebook from her desk. The patients she sees are so messed up that they get entire notebooks. Fuck looseleaf, kid, if you’re here, your crazy ass is going to need a notebook. Her eyes run over her notes from the last session.

 

“Fine.”

 

“And how are you today?”

 

“Fine,” he repeats.

 

“You haven’t been in in nearly a month. What’s the last month been like?”

 

“Sucked.”

 

“And what does that entail?”

 

She calls it simplification, but it’s more like dragging things out to the point of trivialization. Here, Jihoon, take this miserable situation and stretch it out like pretzel dough and then skip rope with it until you’re too tired to do something wild like try to kill yourself.

 

“Exams. Work. Studying.”

 

“And how’s your sleep been?”

 

“I don’t know, bad?”

 

She looks up from her yellow pad. “How many hours is ‘bad?’”

 

“I would honestly just write ‘bad.’”

 

“How are your friends?”

 

_My best friend is fucking our graduating class’s valedictorian and I’m not happy about it._

 

“They’re fine. Kinda. Wonwoo got stabbed last month.”

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“He’s fine now.”

 

“Is he seeing someone about that?”

 

“I don’t know. He seems fine. Like he’s screwed up, but that’s not a new thing that came as a result of the incident.”

 

The Doctor has this hum that she does when she’s probably thinking about what a lost cause the whole thing is. It’s a brown study type of hum that’s just there to cover up silence.

 

“What about Soonyoung?”

 

“What about him?”

 

She looks at her phone on the desk. “It’s June second. You’ve mentioned before that his mood drops around this time. Would you agree that that would influence your behavior? Your thoughts and feelings?”

 

 

 

 

 

Soonyoung was the first, and undeniably the only person, that Jihoon could ever consider to be his best friend. He was the only other child at his ninth birthday party, a pathetic affair his mother threw together with mylar balloons and store bought cupcakes with blue icing. Jihoon still hates the color blue (the whole god damned room was composed of different shades of blue, and no matter how many cartoon characters and flowers were painted on the walls, the fact of the matter was, hospitals aren’t nice places for nine year olds to be).

 

He’d stood in the doorway with his father, huddled behind his leg. His father had been holding a gift wrapped in green paper, with a purple bow on top. Jihoon remembers the bow well, because after Soonyoung had helped him unwrap the gift—a paper airplane kit—he’d put the bow on top of his head.

 

Jihoon also remembers feeling incredibly nauseous from the radiation and the pills, but he still smiled, because even at nine he knew it was deplorable to only have nurses at your birthday party. There was a paper mask over his face, but Jihoon was sure that Soonyoung had smiled back at him.

 

“We used to go to the same school,” Jihoon said, once all parents had gone off to get coffee and talk so the kids could have their fun. “Before I had to come here.”

 

Soonyoung looked up from the plane in his hands. It was a small, paper replica of a fighter jet. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before?”

 

“You’re in the grade above me. My mom said.”

 

“Oh.” He paused, then held the plane out to him. “Well, I hope you can come back soon.”

 

Jihoon took it from him, and held it up to the window. From his point of reference, it looked like it was flying. “I hope so, too. I hate this place.”

 

“I hate it, too,” Soonyoung mumbled quietly. He went back to staring into his lap, with nothing to fidget with.

 

“Are you sick, too?”

 

“No.” He shook his head and looked up at the plane. The little foil details glinted in the sunlight. “My mom is. I came to see her today.”

 

“Do you hate your mom or something?”

 

Soonyoung looked hurt. “No, I love her. But I want her to come home. I hate being here because when I’m here, it means she can’t come home again.”

 

Uncertain of what to do or say, Jihoon did the only thing he could think of: throw the paper airplane across the room. One of his tubes got caught on the bed’s guardrails, however, and he ended up hitting Soonyoung square in the face with the pointed tip of the plane. He looked surprised at first, but then burst out laughing, declaring war. He seemed to have forgotten all about being sad…

 

 

 

 

 

Seungkwan and Vernon had been tent mates for a two-day trip back when they were boy scouts, and it had been the most miserable weekend of both of their lives. Seungkwan had been afraid of insects and the dark, both of which the wilderness happened to have an abundance of. So of course, when Seungkwan asks if Vernon wants to room with him for their first year of college, Vernon looks desperately at Minghao to bail him out.

 

“Sorry, dude, we already requested to live together,” Minghao says, shrugging.

 

Vernon nods in earnest accordance. This is just like the time they gave themselves sunburn lying on the roof of Minghao’s parent’s restaurant to keep up with the lie they told about having gone hiking. Except this time, it’s not as simple as just sitting on a roof for six hours. This time, they’re going to have to somehow contact the university’s housing department and fill out even more paper work to uphold this lie.

 

“I should probably just get a single room,” Seungkwan sighs. “I remember what living with you is like, and I can’t risk that again.”

 

Vernon turns to Minghao. “We shared a tent when we were ten for two days and he cried himself to sleep both nights because he’s a fucking Momma’s boy.”

 

Seungkwan makes an offended noise and points a condemning finger at him. “You sleep with a baby blanket.”

 

“ _Slept_ ,” Vernon corrects too loudly. “I was _ten_.”

 

Seungcheol pulls out a chair and tosses down his F.Y.E. name tag. “What are we making fun of Vernon for now?”

 

“His baby blanket,” Seungkwan says.

 

“Aw, that’s adorable.”

 

“I was _ten_ ,” Vernon repeats.

 

Seungkwan smiles at him from across the table. “Ten-year-olds aren’t babies.”

 

“I’m looking at an eighteen-year-old baby right now.”

 

“Burn in hell.”

 

Vernon narrows his eyes and leans forward. “I _will_. But not for this, for everything else.”

 

Seungcheol looks between them, both amused and horrified. “Can I ask how Vernon’s baby blanket came up in conversation?”

 

“Seungkwan asked if I wanted to live in the same tiny airless dorm room with him for an entire academic year.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Vernon looks past Seungcheol’s shoulder. “Sleep-deprived barista at two o’clock.”

 

Seungcheol turns around. “Oh hey.”

 

Soonyoung makes an unintelligible noise and slams his forehead against the table upon sitting down. “I want to quit.”

 

“You want to quit Starbucks?”

 

He lifts his head. “No, I want to quit my life, but Starbucks would be good, too.”

 

 

 

 

 

Jihoon was with Soonyoung when he finally read the letter. They’d been sitting on the hood of Soonyoung’s car in the botanical garden parking lot for old time’s sake, passing a Marb red between themselves and talking about everything and anything to pop into their heads. Summer was starting to set in, and with the sun still hanging precariously over the horizon line, it was too warm to wear shirts with sleeves.

 

“Are you alright?” Jihoon asked.

 

Soonyoung turned his head. He’d been focused on an ant crawling across the head of a dandelion, tipping on the uneven petals. “I don’t know. Probably.”

 

Jihoon leaned back against the metal. It was warm, but far from searing. It felt nice on his sore muscles. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

 

“Yeah, me either.”

 

“Something is up with you.”

 

“Hm?”

 

Jihoon propped himself up onto his elbows and eyed him charily. “No one can ever get you to shut up, and you won’t say ten words now. Something is up. You can tell me.”

 

“I know I can,” Soonyoung mumbled back, grinning slightly. “But I just really don’t know how to put it. I’m not sad or angry or anything. I just feel nothing. And like, I don’t know if that’s a particularly good or bad thing, so I just.”

 

“I get what you mean.”

 

“Really?”

 

Jihoon nodded. “Yeah, I do. Because you always say you feel like that. Something is going on that you’re not telling me.”

 

“I’m okay, Jihoon. That’s the thing. I haven’t been ‘okay’ as in o-k-a-y in so long, and now I finally am again.”

 

“What, the threatening void of the future is getting to you? I don’t follow.”

 

Soonyoung sighed and let go of his knees, straightening his legs so they laid flush against the warm hood of the car. The backs of his sneakers rubbed against the license plate, squeaking softly as he pointed and flexed his toes. “I uh. My dad gave me a letter my mom wrote. Like, way back then.”

 

Jihoon straightened up. “Oh. What did it say?”

 

“I haven’t even opened it yet.”

 

“Soonyoung.”

 

“I know,” he whined miserably, flattening himself against the windshield. “But if I don’t open it, I can’t get sad about it, right?”

 

“You are already fucking miserable.”

 

“No, I’m—“

 

“Where is it?”

 

He quirked up a brow. “Why?”

 

“You need to read it.”

 

“But—“

 

Jihoon kept eye contact with him as he slid off of the car and opened the passenger side door. “It’s in the glovebox, isn’t it?”

 

“Jihoon, I swear to God—“

 

Sure enough, it was there, sitting on top of a proof of insurance document and a balled up T shirt that probably belonged to one of their friends. Judging by the obnoxious screen print on the front of it, it was probably Vernon’s. The force of Jihoon thrusting the letter at him wasn’t very strong, yet it felt like every bone in his chest had been cracked.

 

Soonyoung just looked at him like a dumb, heartbroken baby. Quivering lips and all. “I don’t think I can yet.”

 

Jihoon slid back up onto the hood beside him. “Then don’t do it alone.”

 

 

 

 

 

The unsaid fact of having a best friend that is as much of a wreck as Soonyoung is the constant, quiet feeling that something terrible is going to happen. Maybe that was why Jihoon had un-silenced his phone on prom night 2013 and got Mingyu’s incoherent text. He had pulled up outside the gym still wearing his pajamas and smelling faintly of mouthwash. Seungcheol was waiting with Soonyoung on the curb, trying to keep him upright, whilst couples that left the dance floor to argue stepped around them.

 

“We got him some water, so he should be okay now,” Seungcheol said to him, opening the backdoor.

 

“Alright,” Jihoon answered shortly.

 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, reaching around to buckle Soonyoung’s seatbelt. “I know it’s late.”

 

“I don’t give a shit what time it is. Where’s everyone else?”

 

“Well, uh. It’s just me now.”

 

Jihoon looked at him curiously. “What are you talking about?”

 

“I’m talking about—“ He held up one finger. “Jisoo never showed up,” and another. “Jeonghan left because Jisoo never showed up,” with each person. “Wonwoo got taken away by security and Mingyu went with him to make sure he doesn’t get himself incarcerated. That’s what I am ‘talking about.’”

 

“The hell did Wonwoo do now?”

 

“Can we talk about this some other time?”

 

Soonyoung put his head down against the dashboard and patted Seungcheol’s shoulder. “You can just tell him. I don’t care,” he slurred.

 

Seungcheol sighed and once he was sure all arms and legs were safely inside the vehicle, he motioned for Jihoon to get out of the car.

 

“Well, what happened?” he demanded, shoving his keys in his pocket.

 

Seungcheol grinned lopsidedly. “I like your pajamas.”

 

Jihoon punched him in the diaphragm, forcing an involuntary, and frankly, grotesquely unattractive sound from his mouth. “Sorry,” he gasped.

 

“Alright, go. You have five minutes.”

 

 

 

The second Seokmin found Soonyoung in the locker room, he alerted Mingyu and Seungcheol who’d been standing at the edge of the gym. Mingyu, of course, then alerted Wonwoo. It was a domino effect of sorts that resulted in the five of them sitting out in the parking lot frantically trying to get a hold of Jihoon.

 

“Fuck,” Wonwoo cussed under his breath. “Should we call 911?”

 

“I’m fine,” Soonyoung said weakly through a thick, drunken haze. “Really, I’ll be okay. I just need Jihoon to come here.”

 

“We’re trying to call him,” Seokmin assured him, letting him lean up against his shoulder even though his breath still reeked of alcohol and bile.

 

“Oh hey,” a voice came from the gym doors.

 

“Double fuck,” Wonwoo muttered.

 

A group of boys in suits obviously rented with their fathers’ money walked towards them. However, judging by the looks of them, they have owned them outright. “Having a rough night, guys?”

 

“Don’t you have some dehumanizing porn video you need to jack off to?” Wonwoo spat over his shoulder.

 

They laughed amongst themselves, and then the Head Jackass directed his attention at Soonyoung, who was still limp against Seokmin. “Have a bad Mother’s Day, buddy?”

 

Wonwoo would never go on to argue that he didn’t throw the first punch because he certainly did. And the second, and the third.

 

 

 

 

 

The opening shift at Starbucks has always been the worst. There is always that one customer that seems to think they are at some fancy French cafe, the coffee connoisseur, the I Demand To Speak With Your Manager mom who is so deprived of a power trip that she’s no longer above arguing with a minimum wage-earning barista. But he’s made it to 2:00 p.m., and that’s all that matters.

 

Soonyoung drags his apron-clad, failing corpse to the Table and pulls out the chair across from Jihoon.

 

“You look like hell,” he comments.

 

“Thank you. I feel worse, so that’s actually a compliment.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

“How was the bank?”

 

“Boring and shitty. Like the rest of my life.”

 

Soonyoung rips his visor off and rubs his forehead. “Have you um. Talked to The Doctor lately?”

 

“Why?”

 

“Just wondering.”

 

Jihoon cocks a brow at him and locks his phone. “Have you?”

 

“Do you need to answer my questions with questions?”

 

He sighs. “Yes. To both of your questions. Now why?”

 

Soonyoung fidgets with the metal adjuster. “I don’t know. Just asking.”

 

“Because you haven’t been there in forever?”

 

“Alright what crawled up your ass and died, and why do you just assume I don’t know how to take care of myself?”

 

“Maybe because you don’t.”

 

“Why are you acting like this?” He sounds exhausted, like he still hasn’t recovered from finals week. Truth be told, Jihoon doesn’t know why he’s acting like this, but he has the strangest feeling that it has to do with the Certified Book Alphabetizer coming their way.

 

“Hey,” Junhui says, shoving his name tag in his pocket.

 

“Well, I’m heading out,” Jihoon sighs. _This is the pitch._

 

Junhui looks at Soonyoung uncomfortably. “Wait, why? It’s Wednesday. We all stick around and then—“

 

“Yeah, I know what we do on Wednesdays,” Jihoon cuts him off. “I don’t feel well.”

 

“Bullshit,” Soonyoung calls out to him, pushing away from the table. He lowers his voice. “What, you got over the vendetta you had with Jisoo so now you have to channel all your weird negative energy at Jun? What did he do to you?” _Strike one._

 

“Drop it, Soonyoung.”

 

“No.” He grabs his shoulder, even though he knows Jihoon doesn’t like to be touched. _This is strike two_. “Why can’t we just talk about this? I don’t even know what ‘this’ is referring to, but like. You’ve never just walked away from me in the middle of something. Every time we’ve argued about something, we’ve talked through it.”

 

“Whatever. Talk to Jun about it.”

 

“Does this even have anything to do with Jun?”

 

_Strike three_. Jihoon stops, spins on his heels, and slaps him across the face. They both recoil, staring at each other for a span of time that can’t amount to more than a few seconds, but feels like minutes. Just as abruptly as Jihoon had abandoned all inhibitory function, Soonyoung’s back was turned and he was walking back to the Table. Jihoon watches Junhui stand up and meet him halfway, ignoring the rubbernecked onlookers.

 

_I’m out_ , he thinks, briskly walking towards the main doors of the fish mall. The Doctor was right, but only half right. Soonyoung has an influence on Jihoon, but not only his bad moods and irresponsible actions. It’s also the things that he should be telling him, but isn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: god jihoon you are so dramatic
> 
> anyways hello! thank you for reading. this chapter ended up being shorter than planned, but it's kind of an establishment arc that ties together some things from previous chapters. i hope everything made a little bit of sense. i also hope you're all well. i read through all the comments on the last installment and i'm really glad you've all stuck around! ;____;


	9. stars all look the same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is 1001% worse when it's hot.

When Minghao walks out of Walgreens, Vernon thrusts his bike on the ground, still straddling his own. “You forgot my Cheetos,” he says accusingly.

 

Minghao adjusts the plastic bag looped around his arm. “You know, you’re the worst bike lock ever.”

 

“Well,” Vernon begins. “I’m not a kick stand. I only serve so many functions. Maybe you shoulda upgraded.”

 

“Are you almost done? We’re going to be late.”

 

Defeated, Vernon sighs. “Yeah, I’ll pick it up.”

 

The unfortunate thing about being Vernon is that it comes with having an inability to find your center of gravity. This is a nice way of alluding to the second that Vernon leans over to lift up Minghao’s bike by the handlebars and he loses his balance and falls on top of both bikes with a metallic crash that alerts the associate in the pastel blue smock.

 

“Are you alright?” Minghao asks calmly, leaning against a brick pillar.

 

“I’m good,” Vernon assures, accepting his fate and slithering out from between the metal tubes and posts. He shakes the toe of his shoe out from between the spokes. “I think I scraped my elbow. I better get a cool scar.”

 

Minghao takes a sip from the clammy bottle of Sprite he’d fished out of the bag. “Should I call Seungcheol now that he’s certified first responder?”

 

“No, I want it to get infected so you feel bad.”

 

Minghao raises an eyebrow. “For forgetting your Cheetos or for watching you fall on my bike in public?”

 

“Mostly the Cheetos.”

 

“Aw.”

 

Flicking his hair to the side, Vernon picks himself off the pavement and steadies himself. “Did you at least get my blue Mountain Dew?”

 

“You mean Voltage?”

 

“You and your technical terminology,” Vernon mutters, pawing into the bag. He peers in and then frowns. “Aw, you did get my Cheetos. Why didn’t you say anything?”

 

Minghao hums. “I don’t know actually. Your whining is distracting.”

 

Vernon grins and rips open the bag. Minghao inwardly cringes because he’s wearing a white shirt, so it’s inevitably going to be covered in Cheeto dust, but he smiles back anyway and bends to pick up his bike. He loops the plastic bag handles over one of the handlebars and checks his phone.

 

“I think Jeonghan is going to kill us.”

 

“Jeonghan is always going to kill someone, may as well be us. Also,” he begins. “How come you’re carrying the bag?”

 

“Because you’re a klutz and you’ll spill everything before landing on top of it?”

 

Vernon purses his lips. “That’s fair.”

 

Minghao shakes his head, still smiling to himself, and leads them out of the parking lot.

 

 

 

 

 

The “coolest” scar Vernon has is on his shin in the shape of a crescent moon. He’d sustained the injury while night-adventuring with Mingyu and Soonyoung in the abandoned warehouse district, a roughly nine-square block area a few miles from the fish mall. It used to be the hub of the industrial scene, but after a few world wars and financial crises, one by one, the warehouses and factories had been abandoned.

 

The exploration was Vernon’s idea (shocker). He’d talked Mingyu and Soonyoung into it over an obscenely large everything-pizza. Mingyu, being Mingyu, was on board from the get-go. Soonyoung, however, was less enthusiastic.

 

“What if we get arrested?” he’d asked, stopping mid-bite to consider the consequences, weigh the pros and cons and pray to God the cons would be heavier.

 

Vernon wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Since when has that deterred you from doing anything?”

 

“I’d say my entire life.”

 

“You need to live a little,” Mingyu encouraged through a mouthful of pizza crust. “Now that you mention it.” He paused to swallow. “Like, sometimes you need to do something just for the adrenaline rush.”

 

“I need to trespass in order to get an adrenaline rush?” Soonyoung asked incredulously.

 

Vernon rolled his eyes. “Um, yeah, that is what this discussion is about. Keep up. So anyways, tomorrow, maybe 11 o’clock? I’m thinking the later we start, the better chance we have of not getting caught.”

 

As planned, they arrived outside the factory at 11:11 for good luck, and were back in Soonyoung’s car by 11:34 because in his excitement, Vernon ran shin-first into a menacingly sharp metal pipe. Mingyu lost his shit because he was certain that he would instantaneously contract tetanus and never be able to talk or eat again, and Soonyoung had to take care of both of them and drive at the same time.

 

“It’s a gusher, man,” Vernon marveled. “This scar is going to be fucking _sick_.”

 

“I’m glad you’re excited. Keep the towel on it.”

 

“Soonyoung,” Mingyu whined from the backseat beside him.

 

“Yes, Mingyu?” he asked, peering at him in the rear view mirror.

 

“If Vernon dies, are we accomplices to murder?”

 

“I mean I’m not a lawyer, but it’s not like we threw him into the pole.”

 

They were at a red light when it occurred to Mingyu that wasn’t really all that convinced by Soonyoung’s moral reasoning. “What’s the less bad one that comes after murder?”

 

Soonyoung pressed his forehead against the steering wheel. “Manslaughter, but Vernon isn’t going to die, Mingyu.”

 

Vernon, of course, did not die. He did, however, get five stitches and an unusual penchant for strange scars.

 

 

 

 

 

They’ve gathered at Mingyu’s parents tiny ranch to help Wonwoo and Mingyu move, but in the mid-summer heat and humidity, no one wants to actually move. It’s unfortunate because Jihoon was really banking on watching Seungcheol do backbreaking physical labor. Instead, he’s roosted on Mingyu’s kitchen counter, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt, peering curiously at Seungcheol, laid out on the laminate floor wishing he’d evaporate already.

 

“You could take your shirt off,” Wonwoo suggests archly, pulling his head out from under the tap. He shakes water from his hair at Jihoon, who kicks him gently, but appreciates it deep down.

 

Seungcheol just groans and hikes his shirt halfway up his belly, exposing the sparse fuzz of his happy trail. Jeonghan walks in, margarita in one hand, razor blade in the other, takes in the spectacle, and looks as though he’s about to make some jackass comment. But then the back door swings open with a squeal of the spring, and Vernon drags himself in. His face is glazed with a mix of sweat and what appears to be soda. 

 

“Sorry we’re late,” he apologizes, holding the door for Minghao. “At least I would be sorry if any of you had actually done anything yet.”

 

“Go to hell,” Wonwoo says. “It’s the hottest day of the year—“

 

“So far,” Seokmin interjects.

 

“The hell is all over your face?” Jeonghan asks, examining Vernon’s slick chin. “Why are you just consistently covered in some kind of food?”

 

Vernon touches his chest. “Really? I walk in and I get this right away? From a guy holding an Exacto knife and a mojito?”

 

Jeonghan takes another sip. “It’s a margarita.”

 

“Okay,” Vernon says, nodding unsurely. “That makes a difference.”

 

At about the exact second Wonwoo gives up on life, Mingyu walks in stripped down to his boxers and a pair of socks and he feels himself being resuscitated. “Not that I’m complaining, and I promise you, I’m not, but where are your clothes?”

 

“Upstairs.”

 

“That’ll suffice.”

 

Minghao looks around the kitchen. “Where is everyone?”

 

“Oh, well Seungcheol is on the floor,” Seokmin points out.

 

Seungcheol waves, now prone with his shirt balled up against his ribs.

 

“And everyone else?” Minghao continues, dumping the contents of the plastic bag on the table. He turns to Jeonghan, mildly taken aback by how fast Wonwoo lunges for the box of melting popsicles. “Did Jisoo have to work today or something?”

 

This question prompts Wonwoo to stop deepthroating his cherry popsicle and throw Seungcheol a knowing glance over the edge of the table. Vernon seems to pick up on this by the way Jihoon stops kicking his legs, and makes a point to keep his mouth shut and not say anything dumb.

 

Jeonghan shifts his weight against the sticky doorframe and adjusts the wilted lime slice balanced on the edge of the glass. “He’s busy,” he says offhandedly. He takes another drink and winces at the taste.

 

 

 

 

 

A good way to gauge whether or not Jeonghan is handling something properly is the order in which he notifies others of the issue. For instance, when he tells Jisoo about it, it means he’s already worked out a good 90% of it. If he tells Wonwoo about it, he’s just venting and it’s out of his hands. When he tells Jihoon about it, he does not want a single person to know about it. But when the first person to know is his therapist, it typically means that he has exhausted all mental resources and is putting all of his energy into fending off the cold air of rock bottom that threatens to put his body into a hypothermic state.

 

He’d cycled through at least five professionals before winding up in her office, and he likes her because she never tells him what to do. She listens. His dad coughs up thousands of dollars for someone to do what he could have been doing his damn self for the last twenty years. Jeonghan actually tells her this consistently.

 

“Are you saying you don’t want to continue?” she’d asked the week before, chin rested in her palm. She never wrote anything down. There weren’t even any pens on her desk.

 

Jeonghan shook his head, the hair at his crown getting messed up against one of the gingham pillows on the couch. He always wishes he could manage to smuggle one out of her office. “Never. I love wasting the old man’s money.”

 

“Is it a bit like stealing?”

 

It’s a lot like stealing, really. But Jeonghan isn’t necessarily a wasteful person, there’s just something satisfying about seeing a therapist he doesn’t think he needs to see at his father’s expense. It’s close to the sense of danger and power that comes with petty theft, but different in a way.

 

“It’s not like stealing at all,” he lied. “It’s like being spoiled in the purest sense of the word. He doesn’t want to listen to the shit that goes on in my life, so he passes it onto someone else—someone with a degree in listening to shit that goes on in people’s lives—and pays for it. It’s right up there with the cleaning crews he always has running through his place.”

 

His last therapist would have written this down verbatim, perused every nuance in his facial expressions and vocal tone, and asked about his father. But she didn’t. Instead, she stepped out of her Tory Burch flats and nodded to herself. “Would you like to keep talking about your father?”

 

“Not necessarily.”

 

She looked over at him. “But?”

 

Jeonghan has reason to believe she may be a psychic, or a witch, by the way she can sense the other things on his mind. Maybe her thesis had something to do with body language, or some other thing Jihoon would call ‘pseudoscience made up to make people feel like they’re more conscious than they really are.’

 

“My boyfriend’s dad is dying,” he told her. Flat and sharp in the same sense.

 

“Jisoo’s father.”

 

He nodded. “He doesn’t want to tell anyone about it.”

 

“Anyone other than you?”

 

“Seungcheol knows, too. Living together, you can’t keep secrets like that. And Vernon, because their families are close. But no one else. We don’t talk about dying parents. Not after other shit that’s happened.”

 

“Does he—Jisoo’s father—does he know about you two?”

 

Jeonghan snorts. “Over all of our dead, wormy, decomposing bodies.”

 

“Does it bother you?”

 

“Does what bother me?”

 

“Him not knowing.”

 

“Not really. If anything bothers me, it’s that Jisoo won’t ask anyone for help. He’s just one of those people that was born, decides he’s going to keep all his emotions in a box, and then one day, he’s going to die. That’s how he is.”

 

“Do you think telling one of your friends could help him?”

 

He blows a strand of hair out of his face. “Unironically, yeah. And ironically, it’d probably be Soonyoung.”

 

 

 

 

 

Seokmin thinks for a second, resting the back of his head against the window. He squints just slightly, looking off to one side. He focuses on the gap in the fence where the neighbor’s roses try to peek through.

 

“What do I like about you?” he asks, amused. He smiles to himself and looks at Soonyoung again through the tall grass he’s attempted to hide himself behind. Mingyu’s mom planted it when he was in the second grade, after he’d stopped trying to “help” in the garden by trimming off the ends with his safety scissors. It’s since grown back long and soft.

 

“Yeah,” Soonyoung answers him, chin digging into one of his knees. He’s folded in on himself, despite the heat.

 

“I like everything about you,” Seokmin says.

 

Soonyoung looks up then, over his shoulder. “Do you mean that or are you just saying that because you think being honest will be enough to make me go lie in traffic?”

 

He’s being pathetic because he’s been pathetic for the past month. It’s getting to the point where wanting to lie in traffic is just the default setting; there’s no need for some harsh honesty to fuel it. He’s been avoiding Jihoon like he’s been avoiding the article due at the end of the month, and all the empty time is pressurizing. And now, leaving his dorm room for the first time in a solid week to help Mingyu and Wonwoo pack up their childhoods and throw money at their future, he can feel his mind starting to bend.

 

Seokmin laughs and parts the grass. “I mean it.” He leaps off the porch and plops himself down beside him. “Really.”

 

He doesn’t feel any better. Talking to Seokmin always makes him feel better, but he doesn’t feel much of anything. Maybe it’s because it has nothing to do with Seokmin, or even himself as far as he knows. He uncurls and flattens his body in the grass, watching the blue in the sky burn into orange.

 

“I’m gonna go get some food, you want anything?”

 

Soonyoung keeps staring at one cloud in particular, because it looks like a spade. “I’m alright. Thanks, though.”

 

“If I bring you something, will you eat it anyway?”

 

Soonyoung grins. “Yeah.”

 

 

 

 

 

The summer before his fourteenth birthday, Jihoon was declared to be in complete remission. Blood tests and scans on the H.G. Wells machines announced that his body, however undersized, was clean and clear. The nurse who always checked his vitals at night cried when he told her. She held his face and told him about how she’d prayed for him since he was discharged. Ten-year-old-sized, thirteen-year-old Jihoon let her hold his hand and pray for him one more time before he left for good.

 

Two years in a hospital had un-taught him how to talk. For the past two years, he listened to his mother drone on about how proud of him she was. He’d done enough school work to skip a grade, but he’d spent so long being silent that he hadn’t made any friends. Part of him wished he hadn’t gotten better.

 

If the loneliness didn’t accomplish this, the fights that erupted between his parents did. He wondered sometimes if having a sick child was a death sentence for marriage, or if they just never fucking liked each other to start with and he was too young before to realize it. Either way, upon noticing how disinterested he was in jumping across the chasm between sheltered child and responsible teenager, his mother signed him up for group therapy. That’s where parents who don’t know how to talk to their god damn kids send them so they don’t have to feel bad about the fact that they don’t know how to talk to their god damn kids.

 

That’s how Jihoon met Soonyoung for the second time. He was taller and slimmer, trimmed of his baby fat and stretched into something resembling a young adult, but Jihoon would have recognized him anywhere. Even in a plastic chair with a beanie pulled down to his eyebrows. His eyes hadn’t changed.

 

The group counselor was young and peppy, and Jihoon wished like hell he’d shut the fuck up, and also wished he’d waste the whole session talking about healthy coping methods just so he wouldn’t have to say anything.

 

“Jihoon?”

 

He’d stopped listening again. Years of listening to doctors say scary things about blood cells and had taught him how to completely shut off communication both ways. But the tests said he was healthy. Healthy teenagers have to talk and listen, but he didn’t know how. If it wasn’t his blood, it was his brain. Something always had to be wrong.

 

“Jihoon, highs and lows?” the counselor asked, grinning at him.

 

Highs and lows, as Mr. Johnny Sunshine explained before Jihoon spaced out, were the high and low points of your week. Some dickbag thought it may be emotionally relieving for a group of psychologically underdeveloped teenagers to talk about their feelings to each other, and now there they all were. Jihoon planned to spend this time observing a nick in one of the oatmeal tiles on the floor.

 

“Pass,” he whispered. It wasn’t supposed to be a whisper, but that’s how it left his mouth.

 

“Well, it _is_ your first session. But we’d love to hear from you next week.”

 

_I’m sure the fuck you would._

 

“Soonyoung?”

 

Jihoon didn’t turn his head, or even dart his eyes. He barely even breathed. Like maybe, it was all just his imagination, something psychological. He wanted to believe he was seeing this kid he met three years ago, so he appeared. But then he spoke, and he was real and sad, and Jihoon lifted his eyes from the floor, looking up slowly.

 

“What was your high this week?”

 

His fingers fled up the sleeves of his cable knit sweater and he glanced at the clock.

 

The counselor smiled. “It’s not time to go yet.”

 

“I have to go,” he announced, bringing himself to his feet. His voice had thickened, but maintained a sort of raspiness that would suggest he spent his first full year of life screaming. Jihoon dropped his gaze back to the chip on the tile, then stood himself to follow.

 

Everything was definitely real, not a chemical dream or a forced trick of the lonely brain. Jihoon was there because he lived. Soonyoung was there because his mother was not so lucky.

 

 

 

 

 

After twenty-odd minutes of trying to get the massive Frida Kahlo print to hang perfectly level, Wonwoo gave up and balanced it on the glazed tile end table Mingyu found in the dumpster in the artsy neighborhood east of campus. The bottom left corner of the frame had been scraped against the cement stairs leading up to the unit thanks to Soonyoung’s swanlike grace, but it fits in with every other broken thing in the place. Like the chair with one broken-off arm that Jeonghan is still seated in. He’s actually the only one still there, save for Mingyu, who fell asleep watching the Food Network. Again.

 

Wonwoo nods at him, leaving _Las Dos Fridas_ once he’s sure the frame won’t slip off and shatter in the night. “Not going home tonight?”

 

“Nope.”

 

Wonwoo chuckles and climbs onto the counter, because he pays rent here and Jeonghan can’t tell him not to.

 

“You alright?” he asks quietly.

 

Jeonghan sighs. “Do you want to go on a booze run?”

 

“Always, but are you okay?”

 

He pulls his fingers through his bangs and flattens them against his forehead. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

 

“You look stressed,” Wonwoo comments, plucking his keys from the nail protruding from the wall above the sink. “Let’s go get something pierced.”

 

“Can we get drunk after?”

 

“Sure, fine,” he relents, turning off the kitchen light.

 

 

 

It’s cooled off, but it’s still humid; the air feels like damp velvet draped over their clammy arms. They walk in time with one another, Wonwoo ducking occasionally to avoid low-hanging branches that could use a trim. He tries to push smalltalk, but Jeonghan keeps his eyes straight ahead and his lips pressed together as autopilot takes over.

 

“This is about Jisoo,” Wonwoo says.

 

“What is?”

 

“You’ve never been this quiet in all the years I’ve known you. It’s a thing about Jisoo, isn’t it?”

 

Jeonghan takes a breath and tastes raindrops at the back of his throat. “It’s not what you think it is.”

 

“I have not a god damn clue what it is.”

 

“Jisoo doesn’t really want it known.”

 

Wonwoo stops walking. “Who am I going to tell?”

 

“It’s not about me,” Jeonghan mutters, shoving him back into motion. “Leave it alone. I’ll pierce whatever the fuck you want me to pierce.”

 

If their relationship was different, Wonwoo may have had the gall to push more, but doesn’t. He instead continues down the sidewalk, hands shoved into his front pockets. “I already talked to Seungcheol about it.”

 

“That fucking figures.”

 

“I’m getting tired of your attitude.”

 

“I’m getting tired of being alive, get used to it.”

 

“You know, I don’t think you should drink tonight.”

 

“You sound like my therapist.”

 

“She has a point,” Wonwoo murmurs.

 

“Yeah, well that’s just not realistic.”

 

 

 

 

 

Freshman year, Honors Geometry was Jihoon’s first class of the day, which he assumed was put in place because of some awful thing he did in a past life. He’d always liked math and numbers, but geometry was another language he couldn’t begin to translate. When asked to pick up a wipe board marker and write out the designated proof, he stood up and bolted for the door. When he pushed through, he ran head-first into someone in a light grey sweater.

 

He took a step back. “Soonyoung.”

 

Without the cap, he looked even more like he did all that time ago. He’d grown his dark hair out past his earlobes, and his teeth had been straightened with braces, but he looked exactly like Jihoon would have expected him to. Still a bit taken aback, with his mouth agape, he looked just like an older version of the boy who stood in the doorway of his hospital room with his father. Granted, that was exactly who he was, but—

 

His eyes widened. “Do we know each other?”

 

“Yeah,” He lowered his voice. “Group therapy ring a bell?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Soonyoung laughed and rubbed his face. “Stupid, right?”

 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

 

“I never said anything the whole time they made me go,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “It wouldn’t have done any good.”

 

“I didn’t either,” Jihoon admitted.

 

They looked intermittently at each other and at the ground between the toes of their sneakers. “So what’d you get sent to there for?” Soonyoung asked finally. “Ah, wait, we’ll go someplace quieter. I know of a place.”

 

 

 

Said place was a dusty closet lined with fuzzy spiderwebs. It was a little cliche, standing in a forgotten janitor’s closet with a boy he’d met as a child, who was now decent-looking and just as much of a mess as himself. He even leaned against the door to prevent anyone else from stumbling in. Who exactly would wander off to the unfinished half of the school and try the door at the end of a creepy hallway, Jihoon didn’t know, but he’d never had the chance to do anything rebellious.

 

“So…” he began.

 

Soonyoung rolled up his sleeves and crossed his arms. “So?”

 

“Right, right… Why I have to go to the Sharing is Caring Circle every weekend… My mom is tired of worrying about me. She has actual important shit to do, I guess.”

 

“Did you try to kill yourself or something?”

 

Jihoon froze and narrowed his eyes. “No, what the hell?”

 

Soonyoung shrugged. “I don’t know. I did.”

 

“Can I ask why?”

 

“Is this the new Sharing is Caring Circle?”

 

Jihoon chuckled and relaxed against the wire shelf. “Yeah, sure. It is now.”

 

“I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking.”

 

“Soonyoung.”

 

“What?”

 

He looked up, not even realizing when he’d looked away. “You remember me, don’t you?”

 

 

 

 

 

With the back to school season on the horizon, Minghao hopes to god that he won’t be scheduled when the shipment of backpacks come in. It’s not so much that they make a mess—they do, but at least they don’t need to be folded—but that every bit of plastic or metal hardware is wrapped in tissue paper, and he has the tedious job of peeling it all off. He supposes it’s better than re-lacing shoes at Journeys, which he watches Vernon do with vague interest.

 

“So do you want pizza or Taco Bell?” Minghao asks, taking off his lanyard.

 

Vernon looks troubled, tightly grasping the Converse sneaker he’s attempting to look more appealing with neon laces. “What is this, Sophie’s Choice?”

 

Just as Minghao’s about to calmly explain to Vernon that the food court has both pizza _and_ Taco Bell and that he doesn’t need to make everything about war movies, Junhui and Seungcheol walk in.

 

“Hey,” Seungcheol says warily. “Have either of you heard from Soonyoung?”

 

Vernon shakes his head. “No, why?”

 

In lieu of answering the question, Junhui turns on his heels and heads upstream without Seungcheol, who calls after him, towards the fish mall’s tail. The bank doesn’t close for forty-seven more miserable minutes, so he figures Jihoon has to still be there. He’s not sure if they’ve spoken, but he’s willing to bet they haven’t.

 

He passes the under-stuffed chairs and the vases of fabric flowers and walks right up to the counter. Jihoon looks tired, like he hasn’t slept since the day of the move.

 

“What did you say to him?” he asks flatly.

 

Jihoon puts his phone down. “Checking or savings?”

 

“Jihoon, seriously. What did you say?”

 

“Why does it matter?”

 

“Because I haven’t seen him since Wonwoo and Mingyu moved. No one has.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: this is not proofread and i couldn't figure out how to get this chapter the same length as the previous chapter without the ugly cliff hanger. i feel like you all knew i was gonna tho. i hope everyone's summer is going well! if you're not from the northern hemisphere please send me the cold bc i'm melting.


	10. what follows thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jihoon relearns how to listen.

Jihoon doesn’t really know if he should laugh or cry. The whole drive to Soonyoung’s dorm feels like an out of place memory that belongs to another version of himself in a parallel universe. But when he grips the wheel and pulls into the lot, and he runs his thumbs over all his fingers again (onetwothreefour knucklebones), the world stabilizes around him, like a single frame coming into focus.

 

The sense of urgency hasn’t kicked in yet, which he appreciates. He has it together enough to calmly flash his student ID card and explain to the student employee behind the desk that he has reason to believe there is a resident in trouble. He recites the room number (624) as asked, and follows the girl up the stairs. She’s clearly not threatened by him, and even if she is, she doesn’t show it.

 

By the time they reach the fourth floor, Jihoon is out of breath and teetering over the edge of a meltdown, unsure if he’s afraid or if he’s just been smoking too much. She looks back at him, casting her braid over her shoulder like a pendulum.

 

“Are you alright?” she asks.

 

A rather stupid question, but he nods. He hasn’t said a word since he, under his own perception, pleaded to be taken up to this room, and he doesn’t plan to.

 

“Would you like someone to go with you?”

 

They’re standing outside the door and there is a key in the lock. It’s the master key, the one that unlocks all the doors of these old rooms. If he could just get his hands on that key, he wouldn’t have to beg for help from the student housing employees ever again.

 

“Hey.” He looks away from the magic key and at her. Unlike the last people he’s needed to help him get into this room, she looks to be genuinely concerned. There’s a chance that if only he wasn’t so tired he’d show _some_ appreciation.

 

“I’ll be fine,” he says. “I don’t know if the inner door will be locked, though.”

 

He knows it will be, because that’s how Soonyoung is. She nods and lets him in. The middle room is lined with shoes and longboards, and the large window across from the front door is bare and undressed, the curtains in a heap on the floor. Jihoon notes all of these things as though they’re important.

 

He stands against the other unit’s door while she knocks and then turns the key. After it clicks, she turns back to him and offers a small smile. “Would you like me to stay in the hall?” she asks quietly.

 

“No. No, that’s okay.”

 

 

 

 

 

The short answer: The week before midterms, Junhui discovered that Soonyoung can handle alcohol better than he can handle cannabis. The longer, more satisfying answer: The week before midterms, Junhui bought a bottle of Bruichladdich with a fake ID, they had essays due in roughly two-hundred hours, and writing was just not going to happen.

 

Soonyoung brought the frosted vessel to his lips, legs hanging over the edge of the bed. Junhui had looked over in disbelief, reading glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.

 

“What?” Soonyoung asked, swallowing thickly.

 

“I…was under the impression you couldn’t do that.”

 

“Do what? This?” He took another gulp and set the bottle down on the nightstand.

 

“Yeah,” Junhui answered mildly. “That.”

 

Cheeks pinking, Soonyoung just grinned and let his head fall back, just barely missing the headboard. “I’m fantastic at that.”

 

Unsure of what to do with that information, Junhui closed his laptop and abandoned the desk in favor of the end of the bed. He reached over Soonyoung’s limp body, elbow poised over his chest, and retrieved the bottle. “So am I,” he said, uncapping it and taking a sip.

 

“Don’t you have to open tomorrow morning?”

 

“I delivered a valedictorian speech hungover, I can unlock a door.”

 

Soonyoung shrugged and pawed for the bottle. “I’ve never had this before,” he commented. “How do you even pronounce this?”

 

“No idea. It’s gaelic.”

 

“Huh.” He was starting to open it again when Junhui stopped him.

 

“That’s over 180 proof. Slow down.”

 

“Shit, how much did this cost?” Soonyoung muttered, examining the bottle. Junhui slipped it out of his hands the way a parent would take a knife from a child.

 

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, placing it back on the nightstand. “I’d just rather you not die of alcohol poisoning.”

 

With a feeble laugh, Soonyoung asked, “What, before I do something crazy like take a bunch of aspirin and get in the shower with all my clothes on?”

 

Taken aback, Junhui paused. “I’m sorry?”

 

“Nothing, nothing. It’s okay.”

 

 

 

 

 

It’s against university policy to open the door to a student’s bedroom. The main door is fair game, but inner doors can only be unlocked by full-time resident supervisors under very specific circumstances, such as a suspected death, a resident in danger, things of that nature. Jihoon highly doubts either are the case, however, so he keeps knocking and cursing internally because he knows that if he sounds angry, there’s no way Soonyoung will open the door.

 

But Jihoon has never been patient, so by the third minute of pounding on the door, he stops. “Soonyoung, it’s me. Please let me in.”

 

Nothing.

 

“I’m not mad, alright? I’m only here because I’m worried about you. No one’s seen you in like a week.”

 

Before he can make any more of an ass of himself, the doorknob turns, the cheap oaken door opens. Soonyoung stands in the threshold with inky, bloodshot eyes, wearing a shirt stained along the neckline.

 

“What?” he asks.

 

“For fuck’s sake. Where the hell have you been?”

 

“Here,” he answers simply, turning back to the desk. There are papers strewn about the room as though a harsh wind came through the window. He slides into a chair and pays Jihoon as little mind one would pay the mail carrier after they’ve gone back down the sidewalk.

 

“You look terrible.”

 

Soonyoung pores momentarily over a Xeroxed document that Jihoon angrily rips out of his hands. “Are you listening to me?”

 

“I have to finish this,” Soonyoung bites, snatching it back.

 

Jihoon examines the unoccupied documents. They’re excerpts from plays and poems he can only vaguely recall hearing of once or twice. “Finish what?”

 

“This paper. It’s due the first day of the term. Twenty pages, twelve-point font, Chicago-style citations, hard copies stapled to the back after the bibliography,” Soonyoung tells him, in almost a mechanical manner. His eyes flit over the pages frenetically, fingers drifting from keys to a specified line of text.

 

“Have you left this room at all today?”

 

“Nope. Not going to, either.”

 

In a best-effort attempt to look away from the train wreck, Jihoon peers into a coffee mug on the end table by the window. “How long has it been since you’ve consumed something that wasn’t coffee?”

 

Soonyoung pauses, hands poised over the keyboard. He resembles a pianist who’s forgotten the entire second half of an overture, floundering for the safety of sheet music. “What day is it?”

 

“How long has it been since you’ve _slept_?”

 

“I don’t fucking know. I just have to get this written.” He reaches for something on the shelf above the desk—a plastic pill bottle—and swallows a single orange capsule, dry.

 

“What the hell is that?” Jihoon asks weakly.

 

“The only thing keeping me alive.”

 

Nonplussed, Jihoon squints until he can make out the tiny lettering, then nearly drops the mug. “Thirty fucking milligrams, Soonyoung? How much have you taken just today?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

Jihoon reaches over and closes his laptop. “Please get some sleep.”

 

Suddenly, like a switch was flipped somewhere, Soonyoung turns and stands. Amidst the spidery veins undulating towards his pupils, a temerity comes over him that Jihoon has never seen before.“Get out,” he says quietly.

 

 

 

 

 

No one and nothing is invincible, that is something Jisoo learned at a young enough age that the delusion and recklessness that should have come in his teens. Said lesson was learned the summer before middle school, one hour after lights out at Bible Camp. He’d befriended another boy of the same age a head taller than him who was known at school for being a troublemaker. Jisoo doesn’t remember his name anymore.

 

Some kids go to Bible Camp to learn how to get into heaven like it’s some Ivy League university or exclusive club, and others go because their parents aren’t sure what else to do with them. The latter was what Jisoo had in common with the boy.

 

They should have been asleep in their cots in their tent (number 10), but it was too hot, and the sheer cast of the moon kept them awake as well as daylight would have. He wanted to go exploring in the woods, but Jisoo was too afraid to leave the trail, so the boy settled for poking around the brush along the path.

 

“Have you ever caught a rabbit?” he’d asked offhandedly.

 

Jisoo told Jeonghan this story once at a bus stop, and it happened to be the only instance of another person hearing of it. It was mid-winter, fall semester finals of their freshman year. The afternoon was spent perusing logarithms and reciting terminology they’d forget by spring.

 

Night always fell early and hard in winter. It was so cold that Jisoo dauntlessly grasped Jeonghan’s gloved hand inside the pocket of his lined jacket and blinked away the ice glassing over his eyes.

 

“A rabbit?” Jeonghan asked curiously, quietly, because Jisoo didn’t often talk about his experiences at Bible Camp. He figured they were just pitifully dull.

 

Jisoo nodded and looked down the boulevard. Still no bus.

 

There was a rustle of leaves when the boy probed into the many arms of the bushes with both arms. Jisoo watched from the gravel, holding his breath. He chuckled to himself, and pulled from the shrubbery a bunny, so young that its eyes were still closed.

 

Pressing their palms together, Jeonghan bent closer to him. “Jisoo?”

 

“I think you know what happened next,” he said, voice sapped. “And that was when it hit me that evil wasn’t just a mythical creature in the center of the earth, you know? It’s everywhere. You can bathe in holy water and pray around a campfire until your face turns blue for all God cares, but evil is in mortal people, too.”

 

The cross necklace felt like ice against Jeonghan’s chest. He dug under his wool scarf and below the collar of his coat and touched it. “Why did you give me this?”

 

“Because you’re the last thing that still makes me believe in God.”

 

The bus came. Jisoo didn’t pull his hand out of Jeonghan’s pocket.

 

 

 

 

 

Unbeknownst to Seungcheol, who’d probably have a fruitless conniption fit if he found out, Wonwoo has a key to his apartment. Jeonghan had it made the day they moved in because he didn’t trust Jisoo to hold onto his own for however long they’d live there. It was meant to be a take this for safe keeping but don’t just walk into my house whenever you want deal, but because of who he is as a person, Wonwoo ended up keeping the key on his Spencer’s lanyard for the exact purpose of walking into Jeonghan’s house whenever he wanted.

 

And sometimes when he thinks he needs to. It’s not typical in occurrence necessarily, but it’s very much a Jeonghan-thing to let his phone’s battery drain, and then hibernate in his room (Wonwoo thinks that sounds a lot like depression, but he doesn’t use the word because Jeonghan hates it).

 

On this day, Wonwoo choosesto trawl Mingyu along because the concept of a large man staying home glued to his Vita was more deplorable to imagine than whatever not-depressing-and-totally-wholesome activity Jeonghan was up to. Obliging with little force, Mingyu takes a Ben Folds CD to play in the car even though the drive is barely five minutes.

 

“I’m not listening to goddamn Zak and Sara again, Mingyu,” Wonwoo sighs.

 

“What about Annie Waits?”

 

Wonwoo narrows his eyes and fiddles with the gear shift until the car sounds like it’ll move. “Lada-da-dada-da-dada-da it is, then.”

 

The piano riffs grate down the bones in Wonwoo’s spine while Mingyu sits beside him in the passenger’s seat, bobbing his head with the cymbal crashes and mouthing all the oo-oo-ooh-ahhs and lada-das.

 

From five houses away, Wonwoo spots Seungcheol sitting on the porch steps with a cigarette in his fingers. He stands as they pull up to the curb, and pads carefully down the sidewalk in bare feet.

 

“Yeah?” Wonwoo calls out the window.

 

“Parking break,” Mingyu reminds him.

 

“Does anyone actually use the parking break?”

 

“Wonwoo.”

 

“Fine, fine.”

 

Seungcheol kicks his cigarette butt into the grass, for which Mingyu begins to scold him and is immediately extinguished by Wonwoo’s elbow. “What brings you here?” he asks genially.

 

Wonwoo cranks the window all the way down and leans out, resting his chin on his arm. “Just came to check up on your dick tetanus.”

 

“You’re never letting that die, are you?”

 

“It’s one of the few things I still have to live for, so no.”

 

Seungcheol looks down. “Not to derail, but Jisoo flew out to California last night. His dad wanted to be out there when, you know. He grew up there.”

 

Knitting his brows together, Mingyu touches Wonwoo’s shoulder, and he freezes. He probably should have informed and consented Mingyu before bringing him, but he’s never been one to think ahead of anything.

 

“And Jeonghan?”

 

“He’s inside sleeping. I’m glad you stopped by, actually. I’m on-call today, and I don’t really think he should be alone.”

 

Wonwoo nods and unbuckles his seatbelt. Turning to Mingyu, he whispers, “I’ll explain everything before we get inside, okay?”

 

As they’re getting out of the car, Seungcheol’s phone makes a muffled blipping noise in his back pocket. He examines the screen, and steps sideways into the grass. Wonwoo pauses in the middle of the sidewalk, shading his eyes from the sun as he watches. “You’re called in already?”

 

Biting his bottom lip, he looks away from his phone. “Eh. Something like that.”

 

 

 

 

 

Soonyoung grinned that ten-year-old with a purple bow on his head grin. “Of course I remember you, Jihoon. Happy Birthday.”

 

 

 

 

 

“If you call an ambulance, I will never forgive you,” Soonyoung says disconsolately, crumpled against the closet door. Seungcheol is shining a little light into his eye to check if he’s going to start seizing or not.

 

Jihoon just stares helplessly, completely numb. He brushes over his knuckles erratically, but he can’t feel them. He knows they’re there, but he can’t focus on how many are there and it perturbs him. He feels as though he’s as solid as the air outside the building that wants so badly to be water.

 

“If I don’t, you’ll die.”

 

“I promise I won’t.”

 

Seungcheol shakes his head. “How can you promise that?”

 

“I’ve done this before.” He winces and lets out another unstable breath. “And it’s fine after a couple of hours.”

 

“Do you understand how heavily it would weigh on my conscience if you were to die on me right now?” Seungcheol asks him.

 

“I do.”

 

“I’m still going to stay here.”

 

“So why is your shirt so lavender?” Soonyoung asks as Seungcheol puts his flashlight back into his pocket.

 

“First of all, it’s periwinkle.”

 

“Second of all?”

 

“Second of all, that hurt my feelings.”

 

Jihoon doesn’t move so much as an inch closer, keeping distance at the edge of the scene, like a ghost in his own life.

 

“I’m surprised Jeonghan didn’t lecture you on this shirt selection.”

 

Snorting, Seungcheol relaxes and leans up against the door beside him, letting his head fall onto his shoulder. “I’m trying to rely less and less on Jeonghan’s input these days. I’m starting to find myself nearly incapable of feeding myself without first consulting Jeonghan.”

 

“I’ve been subsisting on Adderall for three straight days.”

 

“Looks like you win.”

 

Slipping back into his gauzy skin, Jihoon grasps the strings that control his tangible body and steps over their legs.

 

“I’ll be back,” he says dismissively, not looking at either of them. He has the kind of expression that makes Seungcheol imagine he’s hoping that when he walks back into the room, everything will be different.

 

 

 

 

 

Jisoo never had much finesse with saying goodbye. Even in his bravest moments, he was clumsy with the prospect of being on his own. He’d drag his feet, bending over backwards with both heels in the dirt to prolong it. The night before, in a fugue-like condition, he opened up his already-packed suitcase like the belly of a whale and let the contents spill out. He didn’t even remember putting anything inside.

 

Then he watched Jeonghan refold every shirt and pair of pants and shove them back in.

 

But it was a bit like trying to pay attention to two different television channels that someone kept flicking back and forth. He would see for a split second the expression on Jeonghan’s face, and he’d be overwhelmed with contrition. But then the channel would change, and his bedroom would be gone, the bed replaced with a toy kiosk. The guilt now impeded by a sense of panic. He didn’t even think to wonder where Jeonghan went, because his eyes were searching for his father. Just before the channel would switch again, he would catch the figure of a man walking towards him, weaving in between shoppers, but he’d never get any closer.

 

Each alternation’s components were mutually exclusive, aside from the urgent need for balance. It finally stopped when Jeonghan came and sat down beside him, sliding his hand over his and fitting their fingers together.

 

“What time does your flight leave?”

 

And Jisoo couldn’t answer, because he wasn’t sure which channel was real and which wasn’t. He wanted to stay in this one, where Jeonghan was holding his hand and their bed was adorned with pillows they didn’t buy from a store, but he couldn’t stand to think it a trick of smoke and mirrors, a mixture of neuronal misfiring.

 

“Jisoo?”

 

He blinked and then he was at the terminal. Outside the thick glass windows, it was still dark, and he couldn’t tell if it was 10:00 p.m. or 3:00 a.m., and Jeonghan was holding him by the shoulders, studying his face like a script he couldn’t quite make out.

 

“You have your boarding pass?”

 

He nodded. Jeonghan let go of his shoulders and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around him,

 

“Call me when you land, okay?” His voice was warm against his neck. “I love you.”

 

He lowered his head onto Jeonghan’s shoulder, gripping what he could only assume was the aforementioned boarding pass. It feels friable in his hands, like it’s made of compressed powder.

 

“Hey, look at me.” He obeyed. “I’ll be here when you land again. And if you need anything, call me. If you can’t talk, text me. It doesn’t matter.”

 

And again, like a little plush toy on some old woman’s dashboard, his head bobs, like it’s away at sea somewhere. He got on the plane without actually saying goodbye. He’d never known how to.

 

 

 

 

 

Wonwoo decides to summon Seokmin when Jeonghan opens his bedroom door in a wrinkled shirt and a pair of Seungcheol’s ratty basketball shorts, the steel ring in his septum hanging crookedly over his lips, crusted with blood. It was Mingyu’s reaction, really, that did it. Rather than spouting something endearingly obscure, he’d remained quiet, reserving himself at the kitchen table.

 

“He left last night?” Seokmin asks lightly, seated at the end of the bed Jeonghan retreated to with a mug of coffee. He dips his head, letting the steam rise up into his nose.

 

“Yeah. About eleven. Two hour delay.”

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Jeonghan shrugs. “ _My_ dad isn’t dying.”

 

“This isn’t about Jisoo’s father. It’s about Jisoo: someone important to you.”

 

“Why am I so selfish, Seokmin?”

 

Seokmin looks puzzled. “You’re not being selfish?”

 

“I am.”

 

“What selfish thing are you doing? Because I don’t see it.”

 

“I want to help him.” His voice grows louder. “And be there for him. And I can’t, I have no idea how to. I want him to have the kind of support he needs, and I know I can’t do it. But I want to be the one that does.”

 

“That’s the least selfish thing I think I’ve ever heard.”

 

Jeonghan puts the mug down roughly, coffee nearly sloshing over the rim. “And I don’t want him to be there in California. I want him to be here.”

 

“It’s perfectly normal to want that. It really is.”

 

“You take care of all the animals at the pet store,” Jeonghan says, rolling an edge of the bedsheets between his fingers. He’s looking for loose threads, but Jisoo plucked them all clean a few night before because he couldn’t sleep. Jeonghan had feigned sleep beside him because he was afraid to say something wrong.

 

“I do.” Seokmin smiles, mouth closed, and scoots further toward the middle of the bed.

 

“Was there ever an animal that you wanted to take care of, because you were the one who first noticed it needed your care?”

 

“There was,” Seokmin says fondly. “A little bearded dragon. I named her Cricket because she was so tiny.”

 

“Jisoo is my Cricket. And that’s a terrible thing to say. He’s a person.”

 

“Your person.”

 

Wonwoo spots tears in his eyes from the doorway, and decides now is a good time to check on Mingyu in the kitchen. Jeonghan has never liked being vulnerable. Seated in an Ikea chair, Mingyu picks at the rough skin around his fingernails. He looks away as Wonwoo takes the chair beside him (not across from him).

 

“Is everything okay?” he whispers to him.

 

“I wouldn’t say that. But it’s going to be.”

 

Mingyu nods acceptingly, looking towards the door.

 

“Really. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

 

“I know you wouldn’t.”

 

It doesn’t feel appropriate to get up and leave, but it doesn’t feel particularly useful for them to stay either. Wonwoo ruminates on what to do next. Adulthood is strange. He doesn’t have to hide from the anger-prone monstrosity who gave him half of his DNA, but he has to play a role with no real description. Is this what adulthood is, in essence? What it all boils down to?

 

It’s funny. There are people like Jeonghan, who never cries, and then there are people like Mingyu, who cried when he saw a little bird in the mall parking lot.

 

(“It had lost its parents,” Mingyu argued.

 

Chan looked confused. “How did you know that?”

 

“Okay, I’ll never know for sure.”

 

“It was just a small bird,” Wonwoo sighed, turning to Mingyu. “And you were very tired that day. Remember the day Vernon stayed up all night before The Force Awakens came out and then cried through the whole movie?”)

 

 

 

 

 

If Soonyoung’s being honest, he hates the taste of alcohol, but he drinks it anyway because it changes something somehow. It flips a switch in his head that no one, not even he can see. It’s like a subtle filter fitted over the lens of a camera. He’s still sad five drinks in, but he doesn’t care anymore. The feeling is still there, but it’s not unpleasant. A light comes on and suddenly everything is easy to talk about. The switch stays on.

 

Soonyoung thought to himself in the middle of one his not-study sessions with Junhui that his inability to conduct normal conversation without getting hammered first was nothing short of pitiful, then took another shot.

 

If he’d still been seeing her, he would have told The Doctor all about this, and wait for her clinical opinions and questions. Instead, he could only hear Jihoon’s voice in his head. _Whatever. Talk to Jun about it._

 

So he did. Slowly. Carefully. Not drunkenly enough.

 

“I can’t believe it’s already September,” Junhui mumbled to him, kicking at the shirt on the floor.

 

Soonyoung sat up and raked through his hair. “My mom’s birthday is this month.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

He nodded. “When I was a kid and I’d complain that I had to go back to school in September, she always said it was still a beautiful month—keep in mind that this never made me dread going back to school any less—and October, too. One year, all the way into November, some flowers in her garden were still blooming.”

 

Junhui grinned. “What kind of flowers?”

 

“Snapdragons.” Planted in between pastel orange day-lilies and pink zinnia, their deep, purple-blue petals looked out of place all summer, until they were the very last flowers to remain as autumn set in.

 

“Antirrhinum majus.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“The garden snapdragon,” Junhui said. “The greek name, I remember too much useless information from intro to botany. It means, ‘like a nose.’”

 

Soonyoung mimicked his smile. “That’s funny. Because I don’t remember them smelling like much of anything.”

 

“Well, do noses smell?”

 

Perplexed, Soonyoung looked at him stupidly until he started laughing. Assembling all of his coordination, he crawled to the end of the bed, stopping when their faces were level. “Tell me, does my nose smell like anything?”

 

“You are the weirdest person in the world. I love you.”

 

Not swift enough to reciprocate in remotely coherent terms, Soonyoung kissed him instead of replying. It was a strange thing, always peaking his proprioception, sending him off into an out-of-body state where he was unusually mindful of the placement of hands and limbs. It flipped the same switch.

 

 

 

 

 

“Sorry you had to see that,” Soonyoung mumbles.

 

Jihoon snorts and Soonyoung can’t really tell if it’s sarcastic or loving. “Does your chest still hurt?”

 

“Yeah, sort of. It’s duller now.”

 

“I’m glad you’re out of literally-having-a-heart-attack territory.” He says it like they’re talking about something more ordinary. The book store having exactly one last used copy of a textbook so the full price doesn’t need to be paid on a student budget, rain stopping just before needing to leave home.

 

They relocated to the empty living room after Seungcheol had to respond to an actual call. A car accident on the south side, two cars, possible broken bones. No one over twenty-five years old.

 

Jihoon has Soonyoung’s head in his lap in spite of his own hatred for touching. This is different. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

 

“It’s okay.”

 

“It’s really not. It was out of line.”

 

“Well, I forgive you. I was being stupid.”

 

“I should have known what was wrong.”

 

Soonyoung lifted his head and smoothed the hair at the side of his head. “You can’t really know if I don’t tell you.”

 

“So tell me things like you used to. Tell me about school and your dad. And Jun.”

 

“You really want to know about Jun?”

 

Jihoon sighs. “Nothing gross, but yes. Sure. Fine.”

 

“Well. He bought me allergy medicine last week.”

 

“Allergy medicine?” Jihoon asks blankly. _This is Soonyoung’s idea of romance?_

 

“The kind you get carded for because some people use it to make meth.”

 

_Apparently it is._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: hello again! i hope everyone's had a good summer/winter. i'm not sure how much i'll be able to update for a while now (the new term starts on tuesday RIP), so i thought it'd be best to get as much in as possible before things get too chaotic. this chapter was heavily influenced by the writing style of adam haslett's _you are not a stranger here_. it's a collection of short stories, all of which very poignant and interesting. if you don't mind more gritty stories, i recommend it!
> 
> see u next time!!


	11. talking about life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys decide to celebrate Christmas and New Year's on the same day in February.

“Your phone’s ringing,” Seungkwan mutters, barely looking up from his game of Tetris. Actually, it’s Tetris Blitz, which he reviews on the iTunes app store as a ‘god damn travesty of a game,’ but is nonetheless addicted to.

 

Vernon growls and settles for the maroon beanie that Jeonghan once said complements his hair color. “Well answer it for me, maybe?”

 

“So needy,” Seungkwan sighs, tossing his phone onto the couch cushion beside him.

 

Halfway into a pair of subjectively clean jeans, Vernon realizes who would be calling. “Wait, don’t—“

 

“It’s Minghao,” Seungkwan croons. “Nice.”

 

Right. They’d made plans to meet down in the lobby after Minghao came back from work, then take the bus back to the mall. Vernon still doesn’t quite get the mechanics of this proposal, but luckily, it’s yet to become transparent to him that Minghao does not trust his time management skills.

 

Meanwhile, the little gerbil treading away on the wheel in Vernon’s head is running as fast as its little legs can manage. On one hand, Minghao could think Vernon has overslept _again_ and is blowing him off. And on the other, Seungkwan could answer the phone. And say words. With his mouth.

 

Absently, Vernon catches the hem of his shirt in his zipper. “Tell him I’ll be right down, I just have to find my other shoe and get you out of my room.”

 

“Minghao, yeah it’s Seungkwan. I’m great, how are you?”

 

“Tell him I will _be right down_.”

 

“Vernon? He says he’s jerking it.”

 

Vernon is about to kill either Seungkwan or himself. “I swear to God.”

 

“Should only be like ten, fifteen more seconds, though.”

 

“I just want you to know,” he says, grabbing his keys and leaving without bothering to kick Seungkwan out (he’s university housing’s problem now). “That the only reason why I want to outlive you is so that I can experience a world in which you do not exist.”

 

“Great timing. Thar he blows.”

 

 

 

The first thing Vernon can sputter when the elevator opens and he spots Minghao on the pleather sofa in the lobby is, “I swear on my life, I was not jacking off while you were gone.”

 

A handful of other residents around them turn and look. A pimple-faced kid in a Class of 2016 sweatshirt sets down his pretentious Macbook-but-a-Macbook-that’s-running-Linux and pushes his glasses further up his nose to get a better view. No one wants to call 911 when someone passes out on the street but the second a freshman comes clambering out of an elevator wailing about his dick, everyone’s all ears.

 

Minghao’s expression barely changes. “Excuse me?”

 

“When you called.”

 

Minghao just blinks. “No one picked up when I called. It went to voicemail.”

 

“What.” It subsequently occurs to Vernon that he set up his voicemail at age fifteen, and the greeting is still something to the effect of _Hello?… Sorry, I can’t hear you, can you speak up? Just kidding, this is Vernon’s voicemail. Leave a message after the beee_ _ eeeeeeep _ _._

 

“And might I add that I hate your voicemail greeting. Are you in middle school?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll change it.”

 

“You said the same thing about your comforter.”

 

“Trains are still cool as _shit_ , Minghao.”

 

“Right, right. Do you have your bus pass or did you forget it upstairs again?”

 

Vernon gives pause, once again caught in an internal debate. Should he be the bigger man and turn back into the elevator and beat the ever-loving fuck out of Seungkwan and then retrieve the bus pass? Or should he first eject some wiseass thing and then turn back into the elevator and clumsily press too many buttons in the elevator and waste more of Minghao’s life? He already left work early to meet him on campus just to go right back to the mall.

 

Before he can make a decision, Minghao relents and stands, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He should be wearing a heavier jacket, Vernon thinks. “Never mind. I’ll go get it for you.”

 

 

 

 

 

Huddled together, all thirteen, in Minghao's parents' restaurant, they drew names from a bamboo wok older than Chan. Possibly older than any of them. Like the majority of their rare family-friendly activities (see: walkie-talkies and code names), Secret Santa 2016 was Seungcheol’s idea. And much like the majority of Seungcheol’s ideas, execution would have been better if the timing was better (or: if he hadn’t waited until the week after New Year’s Day).

 

Absolutely no one was in a half-decent mood, except for Seokmin. Though he quite apprehensively unfolded the slip of paper, revealing his recipient, he immediately thereafter grinned to himself before stuffing it into his coat pocket.

 

“I demand a re-draw,” Seungkwan muttered.

 

“I demand you suck it up.”

 

“Dad, Wonwoo is attacking me at the table.”

 

“He has no power here,” Wonwoo whispered to him. “This is Minghao’s table.”

 

Seungcheol slammed his fist on the breadboard loud enough to shake the knife block on the counter. He’d have to apologize to Mrs. Xu later. “That’s enough. Unless you picked yourself, no re-draws.”

 

“I picked myself.”

 

“You are lying.”

 

“I am lying, yes, but this is cruelty. Better men have served time in prison for less.”

 

Vernon let his eyes roll into the back of his head and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “You are dramatic.”

 

This caught Jeonghan’s attention. “Oh? Does this mean you actually picked someone you won’t just buy a gift card for?”

 

“Hey, I’m grown now.”

 

“Right, and I’m not just going to ask Mingyu if he still has his Fallout 4 receipt.”

 

“Oh, I so do,” Mingyu piped, fishing for his wallet.

 

“Jeonghan, do I need to remind you what the ‘Secret’ part of ‘Secret Santa’ means?” Seungcheol asked, voice tilted towards desperation.

 

“Right, I forgot.”

 

Cradling the receipt like a baby, Mingyu looked around the table at all of them. “I just want whoever drew my name to know right now that I don’t need anything for Christmas. I’m on like, my third play of Fallout 4 and it’s just as good as the first time. I also got a new apron from my grandma. It says, ‘You gotta whisk it for the biscuit’ on it. Like, a whisk that you mix stuff with.”

 

“Now that’s some real artful wordplay,” Jihoon commented.

 

“Whoever got me,” Vernon interrupted. “Just know that all I want is pepperoni.”

 

A few glances were exchanged.

 

“Like the pizza?” Chan asked carefully.

 

“No, man, like the topping.”

 

 

 

 

 

Of all the things Wonwoo does not expect to see at work, his favorite is Jeonghan. Even though today he seems to be in a terrible mood and hell-bent on making this shift difficult. Jeonghan is, and always has been quite a detached person, and rather than verbally explain how he’s feeling, he turns to acting out. Wonwoo could handle dildo wrangling after Seungcheol would do his rounds through the mall over his lunch breaks, but he cannot will himself to tend to the subtle chaos that Jeonghan brings about.

 

“Why must you do this?” Wonwoo whines, sounding like a very large, wounded animal. By this time of year, when the rest of the mall is buzzing with last-minute shoppers, Spencer’s Gifts is a ghost town.

 

Jeonghan doesn’t look away from the shelf of mugs he’s started turning backwards, but shrugs. He’s gotten quite a ways through the aisle; it took Wonwoo quite some time to put all the trashy Tapout shirts veiny lettering-side out.

 

“Jeonghan. Can we use our big boy words and not resort to fucking up this display?”

 

Now he turns to him, looking fake-hurt. He’s bent down on his knees, reaching for ceramic mugs with sexual idioms and body parts printed on them like upon contact with his hands, they’re going to put his life back together. Maybe if it was someone else, Wonwoo wouldn’t feel bad, but because it’s Jeonghan, he does.

 

“Sorry, I’m trying to quit smoking. New Year’s resolution,” he explains, rolling up the sleeve of his sweatshirt to reveal a shiny plastic patch on his forearm. “Either way, quit fucking up my display. Took me a _long_ time to organize these things from least to most explicit.”

 

Jeonghan turns a mug over in his hands before putting it back correctly. “Do people actually buy these?”

 

“You’d be amazed by how fast these boob mugs fly off the shelves.”

 

He hums, looking over at an end cap decorated with scanty Santa costumes and green and red sequined banana hammocks. “What time do you get off?” He can almost heart the gross retort sneaking up Wonwoo’s windpipe, and corrects himself, rolling his eyes. “What time is your shift over?”

 

“Never, I’m closing tonight.”

 

Noticing the slight slump to his shoulders with this reply, Wonwoo pulls his lanyard over his head. “I can take a break. I could really use a fucking smoke.”

 

Jeonghan grins and follows him past the curtain of blacklighting and down the fish mall’s spine.

 

 

 

Seated between the painted yellow pillars in front of the mall, the ones meant to prevent distracted or intoxicated drivers from plowing into the building and killing pedestrians, Wonwoo burns through a Parliament blue bummed from Junhui. (The exchange had been jovial, and brief, with little question: _-Junhui, my lad, I am in need._ - _Aren’t you wearing a nicotine patch? -Yeah. -Well alright.)_

 

“I feel like if these things were less itchy, the success rates would be a lot higher,” Wonwoo complains, slapping at the patch like a scabbing tattoo.

 

“Or maybe if you didn’t gravitate towards highly addictive substances, you wouldn’t need to do this to yourself.”

 

“Walked myself right into that one.”

 

Jeonghan ignores him in favor of scrunching his neck deeper into the folds of his scarf. “It’s cold.”

 

“Well, it _is_ Christmas." 

 

“It's February." 

 

They stay under the overpass because snowflakes the size of cotton balls are falling in even sheets over the city. And yet people continue to slough through it to buy gifts for god knows who. It’s probably occurred to none of them that Christmas is still happening. For a bunch of college kids, they act like sixty year old millionaires with seven estranged adult children and a stacks of divorce papers thick enough to heat a small commune for a fortnight.

 

 

 

 

 

Ever since he was a little boy, Mingyu has sneezed like his father: needlessly loud and forceful enough to propel large pieces of furniture. When he begins the windup—eyes narrowing, shallow intake of breath—Seokmin immediately pushes him away from the bowl of dry ingredients to prevent them from going everywhere. He sneezes over the sink, launches himself upward, and slams the crown of his head against the cabinets.

 

Smiling sheepishly, he wipes his nose on a wet dish towel and gives Seokmin a thumbs up.

 

“You saved my cookies.”

 

“ _Our_ cookies, you mean?” Seokmin corrects, teeth glimmering over the wrinkled pages of the cook book. It’s full of pastry recipes, so Mingyu wants to call it a Bake Book, but Wonwoo said that sounded too much like a vessel for stashing weed (Mingyu had retorted, “If an officer wanted to dismantle my grandma’s cook book, I would end up in jail,” and later settled for _Cookie Book_ ).

 

“Right, right. But _my_ grandma’s recipe. Woman’s a genius.” She had crossed out most of the ingredients the original recipe had called for and wrote in her own, revising nearly every concoction in the book.

 

“She is. Hey, remember when she baked that spread for the musical? Only table to completely sell out before the intermission. The Culinary Club was not pleased.”

 

Mingyu grins fondly and gets back to sifting flour. “That’s my Gram-Gram. Crushing the spirits of sixteen year old Broadway hopefuls one musical bake sale at a time. All while wearing a pink gingham apron. She’s everything I want to be.”

 

“Well you have the apron down,” Seokmin says, pointing a whisk at him.

 

Mingyu puts both hands over his chest, getting flour all over the rickrack trim. “Thank you, Gram-Gram made it.”

 

Flattening one of the dog-eared corners, Seokmin peers at the meager spice rack. Mingyu had picked up half the baking aisle at the grocery store, much to Chan’s displeasure, as he then had to restock. “So what are these called again?”

 

“Cinnamon Sugar Heart Attacks.”

 

“So we need cinnamon, Mingyu.”

 

Mingyu crinkles his brows. “Well, yeah, I’m not stupid.”

 

“There’s no cinnamon here.”

 

He doesn’t respond for a few beats.

 

“...Okay, I’m stupid and going back to the store.”

 

 

 

Of all the mindless part time jobs Chan could have gotten in high school, he has to admit that working at his grandparent’s grocery store is the best possible scenario. It is one of the few times he can completely turn his brain off and let autopilot do its thing. Scan, beep, scan, beep, read the total, hand over the change, highlight the _Have a great day!_ at the end of the receipt. Attention is a strange and fragile thing.

 

He’s been staring at the blinking tube bulb above the condiment aisle for a solid ten minutes, translating its malfunction into Morse Code when he spots Seokmin and Mingyu looking for something. Instead of mustering up the big, contrived retail smile, he lets his puzzlement show through.

 

“What are you two doing?” he asks, leaning over the counter.

 

Mingyu doesn’t even turn his head. “I need cinnamon,” he says very briskly.

 

“Only cinnamon? You bought half the store an hour ago and now you just need cinnamon?”

 

“I am a forgetful man, Chan.”

 

“Yes,” Seokmin confirms. “It even slipped my mind. Even with a recipe called—”

 

“Seokmin, shhh!” Mingyu hisses.

 

“What are you making?”

 

“It’s a secret,” Mingyu explains, slipping off one of his gloves to better inspect the spices. “But they contain cinnamon.”

 

“Myth busted,” Chan mutters. “Why’s it a secret?”

 

“It’s a Christmas secret.”

 

“Well, my lips are sealed.”

 

Exasperated, Mingyu straightens up, abandoning the search for cinnamon in favor of donning his most serious expression. “Chan, I cannot divulge a Christmas Secret. That’s how you get Old Mr. Claus to come and beat your ass and feed your carcass to his eight tiny reindeer. I didn’t have all those childhood nightmares for nothing.”

 

Chan shakes his head and bubble-wraps the cinnamon.

 

 

 

 

 

Through the ribbons of steam rising from his coffee (with three espresso shots), Jihoon catches sight of Soonyoung’s entire character change when Junhui’s silhouette approaches the Starbucks counter. Beginning with the shaker of mocha powder, which he nearly pushes off the counter. They’re both laughing, in their own little world. Maybe the guy bought Soonyoung some grade A meth-precipitating allergy medicine, and does some cool stuff in bed, but Jihoon has not relented, the rationale for this being the fact that boys with shoulders like Junhui’s do not get involved with boys like Soonyoung with thoughts of pink-rose romance or long-term commitment.

 

He slams half the cup in an attempt to bestir himself after the terrible night of sleep he’s had. Maybe he could close his hand in one of the big safes at work and get sent home. Thoughts of crushed metacarpals fill his mind to the brim until Seungcheol pulls out the chair across from him and they go spilling out his mouth, “I need to break my hands.” 

 

Seungcheol leans away from him slowly. “Excuse me?” he asks.

 

“Sorry, that was involuntary.”

 

“Do I make you want to break your hands?”  


“I said I _needed_ to break my hands.”

 

He nods, seeming satisfied with this. “Got it.”

 

In his character, Seungcheol doesn’t ask anything else, and Jihoon appreciates that. Sometimes he wishes The Doctor would try this sometime; approach less solution-motivated and more interested in listening. Maybe he’d be less of a mess by now if he’d sucked it up and asked for a therapist with ears that aren’t directly wired to a pen.

 

“Do you think I’m being unreasonable?”

 

“Oh, definitely.” Jihoon jumps and looks behind him, because Seungcheol didn’t say that.

 

Seungkwan stands barely a foot away at a nearby table, lapping at latte foam like cat.

 

“How did you know what this is all about?”

 

A puff of air escapes his throat. “Please.”

 

“Really, how?”

 

“You are not skilled in subtlety. You think Jun just coincidently avoids you? I’m pretty sure he’s afraid of you.”

 

Jihoon scowls. “What are you even doing here?”

 

“Spying on Vernon and Minghao. They’re Christmas shopping, or as I call it, going on a date disguised as Christmas shopping. It’s so geeky, it’s like one of those reality shows about virgins that get married just so they don’t have to be virgins anymore and then they kiss like horses. What about you?”

 

“Didn’t want to be at home.”

 

“And Seungcheol?”

 

“Old time’s sake, I guess. I miss it here. I don’t miss Fuck Your Everything, but I miss this. Our Table.”

 

Seungkwan grins. “Oh, Pops. Don't be sad. We'll all be back this weekend for Late Christmas."

 

 

 

 

 

On Actual Christmas, Seungcheol was on-call. While Jisoo sat at home and stared at their tree, completely zenned out on Klonopin, Seungcheol was perched on a bench in the station. The other techs talked amongst themselves, passing around pictures of cute kids and paying him little mind. Christmas wasn't too different when he was growing up. As an only child, his parents didn't have to keep up the Santa schtick for too long. Once he was old enough to kill the magic for himself, that was it.

 

In a way, it was fun to imagine what may still be real to the guys' kids. They were all still in grade school, learning grammar and elementary mathematics. Take a shy mechanic and a compassionate seamstress. Add them together, divide by an inquisitive seven year old, and you get the end of ornaments and decorations. You get three-hundred and sixty-five days, not one of them special, not even if you pretend.

 

"Rookie." One of his seniors, the nice one, roused him from sleep, shaking his shoulder. He didn't even remember nodding off. "Rise and shine. We got a call."

 

In training, he'd heard a lot about the EMS turnover rate, and thus far, he hadn't thought about it again. Clearly, he did not factor in the true definition of 'emergency,' nor did he completely shunt away his belief in Christmas miracles.

 

The house was pretty, painted a minty blue with pearl shutters. But like an apple eaten from the inside-out by a fat worm, the exterior gave no warning to the inside. Inside, a distraught woman was on her knees on the living room floor. A baby lie on its back in front of her. Her little pursed lips matched the color of the house. Pale blue and glossy. And cold. At first, Seungcheol was unafraid. He and the boys had responded to worse things and walked away victorious. But there was little time to feel anything but the steady pressure of adrenaline thudding against his veins.

 

You never want to hear a baby cry, really. Though the sound is supposed to awaken some innate care-taking instinct within people, it's jarring. It's a grating noise that captures attention and extinguishes patience. But for the fifteen minutes Seungcheol spent in that house, all he wanted to hear was a cry. Even one of those god-awful hiccups that allude to a wail. All the while, questions bounced off the walls and onto the laminate floor around him as a trainee tapped out a report. The woman had said the baby's name over and over, first whimpering and then sobbing, but it was forgotten by the time the ambulance doors closed. It was probably better that way.

 

He'd arrived home somewhere between twelve and one. All the lights were out save for those on the tree. If he'd paid better attention back in training when they discussed debriefing and decompressing, he probably wouldn't have spent fifteen fiddling with the crocheted scarves on one of Mingyu's hand-made snowmen.

 

Winter solstice was three days before (four days before? It didn't matter), and the sun wouldn't rise for hours. The house seemed colder in the dark, but Jisoo was asleep on the couch, cheek flat against the Forstenbaum pillow. Maybe someone was missing it this Christmas.

 

He had to get warm somehow. The shaking began in his hands, and worked its way up until his whole body shuddered under the weight of the pen in his pocket. Jihoon found him right before he could step into the shower still dressed from the waist down.

 

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. He pulled a towel from the adjoining closet and turned on the water.

 

"For what?"

 

"You lost a patient," Jihoon answered, as though he'd been on the call with him and sat the whole silent ride to the hospital. "Come here."

 

With gentleness Seungcheol had never seen, especially not from Jihoon, he slipped off his standard black bicast leather belt and yanked down his pants.

 

"How did you know a patient died?"

 

Jihoon shrugged stifflyand steered him into the shower stall, pulling the stopper in the drain. "I could just tell."

 

"She was only ten months old,” he said finally, after his hair had been thoroughly wet.

 

"I'm sorry, Seungcheol."

 

"I did my best."

 

"I know you did."

 

"She was just a baby."

 

Jihoon pulled him down to sit on the floor of the tub. "How many people were there, trying to save her? How long did you and your team do every possible thing to save her?"

 

He couldn't remember later how he got into bed, or when, but the corner of the sticky note Jihoon left on the bathroom mirror was still wet.

 

_reminder: you did everything you could. be back later. —j_

 

 

 

 

 

When Wonwoo unlocks the front door, Jeonghan trailing behind him, the thick scent of cinnamon and molasses hits him in the face. In the kitchen, Seokmin and Mingyu are still decorating cookies and struggling to stay awake.

 

“Hey,” Mingyu mumbles, eyes fixed on a heart-shaped cookie covered in jimmies arranged in parallel lines. He barely moves when Wonwoo pats his cheek as he walks by to hang up his keys.

 

Mentally spent, Jeonghan pulls out the chair across from Seokmin and observes. “Did you want to try it?” he asks, offering up a pastry bag.

 

“I’m good.”

 

“So what’d you guys do today?” he asks, licking royal icing from his fingers.

 

“Just the usual. Shot a New Year’s Resolution in the foot.”

 

Mingyu’s frenzied decorating falters to a stop, tweezers poised delicately over a cookie. He turns to look at Wonwoo, who sits crosslegged in the doorway, halfway rid of a flannel that probably needs to be washed, toying with his phone to avoid suspicion. “That wouldn’t happen to be your resolution, would it?” Mingyu asks him.

 

Wonwoo clicks his tongue and tips his head back against the door. “Yours didn’t make it two days.”

 

“We shouldn’t have picked each other’s resolutions then, maybe.”

 

“What _was_ your resolution?” Seokmin asks.

 

“Keep the kitchen clean,” Mingyu grumbles, looking away from the disaster zone behind him.

 

Disregarding the crack of every bone in his body, Wonwoo picks himself off the floor and rinses a rag under the tap. “Well, I’ll do your resolution if you do mine.”

 

Laughing doubtfully, Mingyu tosses the tweezers aside and follows him to the sink. “That was _not_ the deal.”

 

Wonwoo tucks a dish towel in the kangaroo pocket on the front of his apron. “Well, then we’ll work on them together. Starting with these wooden spoons, holy _shit_.”

 

Jeonghan grins at Seokmin and rolls a stray sprinkle between his fingers. “It’s sweet how they even half ass things together.”

 

This clears the air enough for the question Seokmin has been hanging at the back of his head since they walked in. “So what’s on your mind?”

 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you: whatever happened to Cricket?”

 

Seokmin stiffens up a bit, and places the piping bag on the table to wipe sweat from his palms onto the apron he borrowed from Mingyu. The red one monogrammed in the Betty Crocker font. “The bearded dragon?”

 

“Yeah. From the pet store.”

 

“Well, she died.”

 

Jeonghan drops the sprinkle on the floor and watches it disappear into a little green dot that rolls away under the fridge. “I’m sorry.”

 

In his usual manner, Seokmin shrugs clumsily and resumes dotting snowman cookies with icing buttons. “Don’t be sorry,” he assures him before carefully admiring his work. “These turned out pretty good, huh? I don’t think Mingyu would mind if you taste-tested them.”

 

Hands submerged in dish water, Mingyu turns and smiles, shaking his head. “‘Course not. The first one is magic.”

 

Under a thick layer of detergent bubbles, his pruned fingers twitch against Wonwoo’s. 

 

 

 

 

 

Mouth half-full of mall pretzel, Vernon continues on about how despite escaping having to share a room with him, he is still cursed to an eternity with Seungkwan. Meanwhile, Minghao is getting less and less thrilled with the whole prospect of buying a Secret Santa gift. He stops them in front of the vacant kiosk they’ve passed at least four times now.

 

“Vernon, you are making shopping very difficult.”

 

He gapes. “Oh, fuck dude, you got him?”

 

“No, I got Jeonghan, but you are not helping me.”

 

Vernon pauses. “Remember what Seungcheol said about the ‘secret’ part?”

 

Losing patience, Minghao turns to him sharply. “…You have cheese on your nose.”

 

For a second, he almost looks cute attempting to lick it off. Like those videos of babies trying to complete some object permanence experiment but they can’t because their brains are still stem cell soup.

 

“Just use your sleeve,” Minghao suggests, heading back onto their original path. “I know you want to.”

 

“Not a word of this to Jeonghan.”

 

“Scout’s honor.”

 

“Hypothetically speaking, what would you want for Christmas?”

 

“Did whoever picked me ask you?”

 

Vernon somehow manages to keep walking and come to the realization that Minghao wasn’t tipped off at the same time. “Uh. Yes.”

 

He shrugs, uninterested. “I dunno.”

 

“Do you want me to get my ass kicked?”

 

Minghao snorts. “Is it Wonwoo?”

 

“Who cares, tell me. If I was like a genie—No, if I was Santa, what would you ask me for?”

 

“This is an unusual way to get someone to sit on your lap.”

 

“Not where I was going with this.” And yet, now that’s where his mind is going with this. “Come on, Minghao, think. It’s the most wonderful time of the year. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Stockings hung by the chimney with care.”

 

Distracted, he peeks through the windows of each shop they pass. All of the holiday sales have ended, paving the way for post-Valentine’s day sales. “And a partridge in a pear tree, right?”

 

“I may have been prepared to say that, yes.”

 

 

 

 

 

By the time New Year’s Eve came, neither Jisoo or Jeonghan had the energy to take down the tree, and Seungcheol didn’t even know the first thing about decorating, much less putting those sorts of things away, so it stayed up. The guy who delivered an Edible Arrangement for a Mr. Choi shared a childhood anecdote about how his mom used to play Christmas music and take down all the decorations on New Year’s Eve, and Jihoon had the uncomfortable task of pretending to be enthralled.

 

“What’s that?” Jisoo asked vaguely, flipping through the channels on the TV.

 

“A basket of fruit poorly disguised as flowers,” Jihoon answered, placing it heavily on the kitchen counter. There was barely enough room for it. No one had done dishes in at least a week.

 

Jisoo dropped the remote on the floor and slid off the couch like a cat, curling his body into a ball. “Does it happen to have anything chocolate-coated in it?”

 

“It’s for Seungcheol. From a patient.”

 

“Oh. Never mind—”

 

Taking it in both hands, Jihoon padded into the living room and set it on the coffee table like a tray of cold cuts before sinking into the couch. “So do you want to eat the whole thing with me?”

 

“Is there any pineapple in it?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Jisoo made a face and slumped a little. “I hate pineapple.”

 

“That’s okay, I’ll eat it.”

 

It took an hour, but they made their way through the whole thing, not saying a word, until there was nothing but the vase and a handful of assorted wooden skewers. Jihoon let Jisoo eat all the chocolate-dipped strawberries, and Jisoo didn’t bother to let on that he knew that Jihoon liked them too.

 

“You know,” Jisoo said, licking watermelon juice from his fingers. “I always thought you hated me.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Well, I guess hate is a strong word. I always felt like, of all of our friends, you’d be the least sad if anything bad happened to me.”

 

Addressing an elephant in the room was never really Jihoon’s idea of a good time, nor had he even achieved proficiency, but he’d never even thought about what he’d do if an ivory tusk was hastily shoved up his right nostril. He staggered for what to say, but managed, “I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”

 

“Is it because of Jeonghan?”

 

“Well, yeah, but—“

 

“No, I get it. You had every right back then. Maybe even now. But now I’m working on it.”

 

“That’s good.” Jihoon nudged the vase with the tips of his toes until it was almost falling off the table, and Jisoo didn’t even tense up.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Do you feel better?”

 

Jisoo’s shoulder twitched. “I guess. There’s a new year starting in eight hours.”

 

“Does that really mean anything?”

 

“I’d like to think so.”

 

Not really smiling, but more so just tugging the corners of his lips upward in some semblance of a smile, Jihoon elbowed him. “In that case, you think we should jump at midnight?”

 

“To get taller?”

 

“Too late for that. To be better.”

 

Jisoo smiled for real. “Alright.”

 

 

 

 

 

Part of being better, at least to Jihoon, is ending the cycle of internalizing all of his improperly projected anger, and remarkably, a vase of melon cut into flower shapes was more integral to this epiphany than countless sessions in a green room with a licensed professional. Unruffled by the nearly two months it’s taken for this to be put into motion, Jisoo gives him a thumbs up from his post outside Bath and Body Works as he makes the walk of shame to Barnes and Noble.

 

_This is just part of being better_ , Jihoon tells himself again, like a mantra in his head that he’d roast anyone else for saying out loud.

 

All morning, he’d thought about how he’d go about it. He swished the ideas around like the sides of magic 8 ball dice, this time rising to the soapy surface of bathwater. _Maybe you could be tender for once_. That idea was blasted to smithereens when he remembered that it could just seem condescending coming from him.

 

To evade suspicion, he’d just have to maintain his default abrasive bearings, even if they came across as well, abrasive. And so he chooses his words with the carelessness he’s always had.

 

“Junhui.”

 

He turns, startled. His hair is unkempt and his name tag is backwards, so it reads, ‘HELLO MY NAME IS.’ A true testament to the value of a former valedictorian. “Yes?”

 

“We should probably talk.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: you may be wondering why it's been 5 months since i've updated and why this is leaving off on another cliff-hanger. i don't have a good answer for either but thank you for sticking around and not losing all faith in me. and if you did, i don't blame you.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>   
> life is wild.  
> 


	12. silver bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, Ya Filthy Animals.

“I certainly am glad you’re extending this proposal this in a _public location_ with _security cameras_.”

 

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “I’m being serious.”

 

Jun barely breathes. “So am I.”

 

“God.” He presses his fingertips into his brow bone. “I owe more apologies than I thought.”

 

Junhui relaxes, twirling the webbing of his lanyard. “For what?”

 

“Slow down, big boy. You’ll get yours eventually. I’m laying ground first.”

 

“This is about Soonyoung, isn’t it?” His eyes are like those of a trapped rat, pleading from the inside out for the trap to fall fast.

 

Jihoon nods. “Mmm, yeah. And I don’t want to waste time if I end up hating whatever answer you have to this, so I’ll just ask point-blank: Do you actually like him or do you just like fucking him?”

 

“Oh, god.” Junhui takes off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose.

 

“Because if you don’t actually like him, you have to cut things off. He’ll be okay. But you can’t lead him on, he’s…delicate.”

 

“Jihoon—“

 

“Like, if that boy was laundry, you’d want to wash him on gentle. In one of those mesh bags.”

 

“ _Jihoon_.”

 

“What?”

 

“Well for starters, this is a lot for 2:00 p.m. on a Wednesday.”

 

“It’s 2:08. Get it together.”

 

Junhui looks both ways for managers doing rounds of the store, then cranes his weird giraffe neck downward and lowers his voice. “Look, I do like him. I get it if you don’t believe me, and I don’t know what big red flag I was waving that indicated that I didn’t, but I do, alright?”

 

“Didn’t you say yourself that you refuse to fool around with people you like?”

 

“In _high school_. Jihoon, I went to all-boys school for ten years. That’s what you did there. That and hide drugs in dental floss containers. And then lie about it.”

 

“So this is somehow magically different?”

 

“I mean, there’s nothing magical about the fact that I’m not the same person I was when I was like seventeen, but yes. Essentially.”

 

Jihoon still isn’t satisfied. “And have you told him you’re for real?”

 

“When did you become a relationship counselor?”

 

“Sometime shortly after you chose to sleep with my best friend, I’d estimate.”

 

“Then I’ll tell him right now. Would that help?”

 

“Yes, actually.”

 

Without any wise remarks or complaints, Junhui turns towards the infamous Starbucks with the nerve of someone with a lot less to lose. For a second, Jihoon is almost jealous of his resolve.

 

“Wait, really?” Jihoon’s jaw hangs slack.

 

“Now or never.”

 

“I mean, later would also work.”

 

Junhui raises a brow. “Who are you now?”

 

 

 

 

 

Though he won’t admit it, Minghao is dying to know what name Vernon picked, even though he knows whoever it is will just get a gift card. But Vernon seemed confident that he wouldn’t take the gift card cop out again, and the reasoning for this was eating at Minghao from the inside out.

 

Unaware of the inner turmoil raging inches from him, Vernon coughs up a spoonful of coarsely-ground cinnamon on a dare in exchange for a free venti S’mores Frappe. Soonyoung watches, enthralled, from behind the counter, just as oblivious.

 

“The things you do for free sugar,” Minghao mutters, shaking his head.

 

“Please,” Vernon gasps. “I would have done that for nothing.”

 

“And you have before,” Soonyoung reminds him, reaching for a paper cup. “So I guess you earned this retroactively.”

 

Before Vernon can catch his breath enough to start congratulating himself and pointing out that Soonyoung almost-technically owes him two frappes, Junhui walks up to the counter and slams his hands down like a crime drama lawyer. Soonyoung promptly drops the chocolate sauce and a syrupy stripe drips down the front of his smock. Disappointed, Vernon pouts a bit because he wasn’t banking on such a momentous opportunity to show itself.

 

“I have to talk to you,” Junhui says.

 

Still riding the embarrassment wave, Soonyoung looks up slowly. “Really, right now? About what?”

 

“Just—“ He stops talking to acknowledge Vernon and Minghao, who are rubbernecking in anticipation for a car crash. “Stock room.”

 

“We can’t just talk here?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I like you.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Not nearly as gratified as he would be by a car crash, but still without anything better to do, Vernon looks at Minghao with a big, stupid smile, like, _you’re seeing this too, right_?

 

“So…stock room.”

 

Soonyoung hangs his apron on one of the drawer pulls and taps his distracted coworker on the shoulder. “I’m going on break,” he tells him. The kid just nods his head and keeps scrolling through Reddit.

 

 

 

“I’m not too sure how to expand on this,” Junhui admits, a pull chain swinging in front of his face.

 

“That’s okay. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to say.”

 

“You don’t have to say anything, I just wanted to tell you that.”

 

“I kind of already thought you did.”

 

Frustrated with himself, Junhui swats the pull out of the way and inches closer. “I did. I just don’t have finesse with this kind of stuff, so I was hoping that as long as it _seemed_ right, it was enough. But then someone who will remain anonymous said that—“

 

“Jihoon?”

 

“Well, yeah.”

 

Frustrated, Soonyoung aggressively tucks the still-swinging chain behind a box of straws. “Alright, go on.”

 

“He just wanted me to say it, I guess. And he was right, you deserved to hear it.”

 

“Jihoon cares about what I deserve all of a sudden? Is he ill?”

 

“Didn’t you two make up?”

 

“Yeah, what’s that got to do with anything?”

 

“Never mind.” Junhui grins and takes one last step closer.

 

 

 

 

 

Seungcheol’s always been an early riser. He cracks his aching joints and gets out of bed slowly, even though Jihoon could probably sleep through a level seven earthquake. The kitchen is almost pretty now that it’s clean. Jisoo had gone ham on it after spending a week with his mother after finals week. All the mold was setting off his anxiety.

 

After missing the button twice, Seungcheol starts the coffee machine and glances out the window over the sink. The sky is an icy blue expanse that burns yellow against the edges of houses and trees. A particularly tall building cuts an odd shape into it, like a puzzle coincidentally missing two adjacent pieces.

 

Behind him, he hears a door open, then shut. He looks towards the front door, and Jeonghan peers back at him. “What?”

 

“Nothing. Just making coffee at seven p.m. like any wholesome person.”

 

“Oh, perfect. I just picked up rum.”

 

Seungcheol laughs and fetches a pair of mugs from the cabinet. “So how was your appointment?”

 

“She told me to quit drinking again.”

 

“And you come home with rum.”

 

Not detecting the irony, Jeonghan sets the bottle on the counter hangs up his keys. “Yeah, the good kind.”

 

“No shitty cheap rum?”

 

“It’s a special occasion.”

 

“Is it?”

 

“Yeah. Our lease is up next month.”

 

It was the strangest time for a lease to be up, really, and in the turmoil of impending midterms, Seungcheol had forgotten all about it. “Oh. We should probably talk about that—“

 

“Jisoo and I talked it over.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“He thinks we should look for a bigger place, and I agree with him. Jihoon can’t keep storing all his stuff in the pantry. He’s not Harry Potter.”

 

“Harry Potter lived under a staircase.”

 

Jeonghan just rolls his eyes and starts to undress the bottle. “Whatever. We already found a couple, but we should all go for the viewings.”

 

“As long as it has a functioning laundry room, it’s fine. I know our schedules are shit.”

 

Once the coffee maker stops perking, Seungcheol fills both mugs and sits at the table. Jeonghan stays leaned against the counter, playing with wrapper foil. Something’s on his mind. Normal Jeonghan throws those things away immediately, every time, and takes one clean gulp for good luck.

 

“Everything good?” Seungcheol asks.

 

“Do you think I’m an escapist?”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Do you think I’m an escapist?” he repeats, this time sounding annoyed.

 

“You ever just look up at the sky and think about all the shades of blue up there?”

 

Jeonghan sighs and twists the cap off. “So, I’m not the escapist. You are.”

 

“I think there are things that are escapable, yeah. And when you can, totally do it. But do it carefully, you know? Drink, yeah, sure, whatever. But don’t get blackout drunk and then act confused when people tell you there’s a problem.”

 

“Come off it. The only person who says there’s a problem is someone being paid to say it so she doesn’t have to fill out paperwork if I die.”

 

“People who love you say it. Wonwoo, Seokmin, Jihoon, me. Everyone.”

 

“Jihoon loves me? Does Jihoon love anyone?”

 

“Look, he does even if he never acts like it.”

 

“Do you think Jihoon loves you?”

 

“Well, he’d probably be really sad if I died.”

 

Jeonghan grimaces over the lip of the bottle. “That is _sickeningly_ sweet. You’ve just made me too grossed out to drink. I sure hope you’re happy.”

 

 

 

 

 

Mingyu’s garishly decorated invitations had indicated that festivities would begin on Friday, February seventeenth at 7:00 p.m. This appointment did not come to pass because Wonwoo ended up having to close Spencer’s on short-notice. No one gave him a hard time about it because they weren’t interested in incurring his wrath. The second proposal was for the next Friday, which also fell through due to a fishtank tragedy that upon recollection caused Seokmin to weep onto his french fries. And the third attempt to celebrate Christmas in February of all months was blindsided by the fact that there simply were no more Fridays left in the month.

 

The celebration comes in March instead, Friday the third. Stockings are packed away in attics, and a few days in the mid sixties have convinced them to forget about the ugly sweaters, so in Vernon’s honest opinion, it’s not beginning to look at all like Christmas.

 

“Can you shut the hell up? I’m wearing antlers and a red nose, it’s Christmas, you Scroogey little dick.”

 

Wonwoo has hit the spiked eggnog (which was a real pain in the ass to find if you ask Chan) a little too hard. It also doesn’t help that he pre-gamed Christmas with Jeonghan beforehand.

 

“Wonwoo’s right,” Seungkwan says, twirling a sprig of mistletoe. “And you know how much I hate when I a) have to say that and b) actually mean it. Where is everyone’s holiday cheer?”

 

Crammed on the couch crack between Vernon and Seungkwan, Minghao is not at all sure where his holiday cheer is, or if he ever had any to begin with.

 

“Better question,” Wonwoo begins. “Where’s Big Papa?”

 

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “He’s on call until midnight.”

 

“Midnight? Are you fucking serious?” Wonwoo snatches the mistletoe from Seungkwan’s fingers and shoves it in Vernon’s hand. “Choke on this so he has to come resuscitate you.”

 

“Absolutely no trying to kill Vernon on Christmas,” Seungkwan snaps. “Let him give his gift first.”

 

It would appear that everyone forgot about the exchange, because once he says this, they all groan in unison as though he’d spit out a terrible pun.

 

“Pass,” Vernon says. “I want to give mine last.”

 

Wonwoo flicks up an eyebrow at him, like he just _knows_ , and volunteers himself, “Then I’ll start. For our precious little Chanly.” He produces a shallow box from his coat pocket.

 

Downshifting from Vodka Uncle to Soccer Mom, Jeonghan eyes him with predatory suspicion. “That better not be something disgusting.”

 

“And why the hell would I get the kid something disgusting? He’s not Seungkwan.”

 

"Mom, Dad,” Chan interrupts. “I get it, you’re having marital problems.”

 

 

 

 

 

Wonwoo wakes up fifty pounds, under a hand-mended comforter that smells like fabric softener sheets, and immediately knows that he’s dreaming. There is no six-foot Square Enix fanboy in the bed beside him, no curtains on the windows, no carpet on the floor under his feet. In this dream, he is ten years old. His hair falls in lank strips that cloister his bleary eyes from the sight out in the living room.

 

He’s tried certain things to wake himself before his body carries him out the door and down the stairs. Before his head pokes over the banister and sees his mother’s eyes rolled into the back of her head, with such a heaping geyser of foam oozing from her mouth you’d think she’d guzzled a bottle of Dawn.

 

When he recounts the recurrences of this nightmare—“It’s a dream,” he corrected. “If it were a nightmare, I’d be afraid.”—to his therapist, he makes these awkward faces, trying to figure out what they mean, and how to bring Wonwoo to talk about their triggers to the point that they attenuate.

 

But he argues that they won’t. It’s just his brain wanting to keep certain things around past their expiry dates for some buried, masochistic reasons. Their precise mechanisms escape the man in the leather chair with brackish circles under his eyes.

 

The dream only ever ends with him waking up in real life. It’s just unfortunate that the only thing enough to bring him back into his present body is to go all the way down the stairs, kneel beside his mother in her medical limbo, and touch her hand. Sometimes, she’ll sit bolt upright and look at him with her bloodshot eyes, or she’ll stay still. The dream is like a jack-in-the-box that cranks on its own.

 

 

 

 

 

Though Wonwoo’s gift to Chan is not disgusting, it does stir the pot. Even Minghao has a visible reaction; he furrows his brows and looks to Vernon for his response. Vernon is just impressed and enthralled.

 

“He’s eighteen now, an adult,” he defends, waving off the condemning glare Jeonghan is throwing his way and patting Chan’s shoulder. “Maybe when the snow melts we can play catch with it.”

 

“With a butterfly knife, Wonwoo?” Chan asks.

 

“I’m a little drunk.”

 

Seungkwan decides this is a good time to keep things moving. “Well, Chan, who’d you get?”

 

Eyes narrowed, Chan smirks to himself and like a human spin-the-bottle bottle, points to each of them in the circle before stopping at Soonyoung, whose mouth opens into an O. “Me?”

 

“Yes, and my mom wrapped it.”

 

“Well now I’m anxious and I need a letter opener.”

 

Seungkwan shoves him in the knee with his heel. “You’re always anxious. Just rip it open it like an animal.”

 

Soonyoung compromises, ripping off the tape, but avoiding beheading the cute kittens printed on the wrapping paper. “How funny would it be if we all got each other butterfly knives?” he jokes, warranting another good shove in the leg. “Oh, wow.”

 

“Do you like it?” Chan nearly edges off the couch.

 

“What is it, exactly?” Jeonghan asks.

 

“It’s a journal.” It’s bound in leather, with a ribbon place marker. On the very back page in Chan’s uneven hand is, ‘Merry Christmas!!! ^^’

 

“Oh, lame.”

 

“I _like_ it.”

 

“Right, moving on. Who’d you get?”

 

Soonyoung throws the balled up paper at him, and nods at Seokmin. “For you, my friend.” He hands him a gift bag with a pink heart on it.

 

“Is that a Valentine’s Day bag?” Seungkwan gawks.

 

“It was on sale.”

 

In his humble nature, Seokmin gingerly lifts out what appears to be public restroom paper towel acting as tissue paper. “Oh,” he says softly, before reaching in. “Is this a DDR mat?”

 

“No, open it.”

 

Inside the DDR mat box is a wide variety of animal plush toys: a leopard gecko, a hamster, a kitten, a fish. Seokmin laughs at each one, lining them up on the coffee table. “Thank you, I love them.”

 

“That’s not it, look at the bottom of the bag.”

 

Seokmin shakes his head and peers back in the bag, then fishes out a small blue envelope. Sure that it’s just a Christmas card, Jeonghan pours himself a third glass of wine, and nearly drops the bottle when Seokmin yelps at the contents.

 

 

 

 

 

Last June, in the front lawn outside Mingyu’s parents house, they stayed up the whole night while everyone else moved boxes and storage bins across the city. Somehow no one noticed that they’d gone their own way, likely due to the heat and humidity clouding their judgment.

 

“There was no real food left,” Seokmin explained, handing him a bright orange popsicle. “Also, everyone’s gone.”

 

“Gone?”

 

“Yeah, the move, remember?”

 

“I’ve proven myself to be of no use once again,” Soonyoung announced triumphantly, laying back down in the grass, licking sweet, tangerine-flavored juice from his fingers.

 

“They’ll probably come back.”

 

Still being loved by his parents and all, Mingyu wasn’t planning to take all of his things, just the essentials. Soonyoung knew this, and realized they weren’t coming back, but chose not to give away this knowledge. He wanted to stay a little longer.

 

“You see that cloud there?” Soonyoung asked, pointing vaguely to their right.

 

“There are a lot of clouds, you’re going to have to be specific.”

 

“The one that’s shaped kind of like a heart.”

 

“None of them look particularly—“

 

“Like an anatomically correct heart.”

 

“Oh! Yes, I see it. What about it?”

 

Soonyoung shrugged and stabbed the now-bare stick into the dirt, digging a very small, shallow hole. “Nothing, it’s just there.”

 

“It is.”

 

He didn’t mean to talk like an idiot. “My mom and I used to do this. When I was a little kid.”

 

Seokmin offered him the Reassurance smile. It didn’t make him want to smile back, nor did it make him feel any less sad, but it did make him feel less alone. He accepted it and turned to look back up at the heart cloud. The wind was starting to take it apart. The aorta began to appear more like a smear in the sky, and the chambers were separating. But for that time, it looked like a near-perfect heart.

 

“You know those bullshit stories about people losing their parents—or grandparents if you’re a normal person—and they say they can still sense that dead person with them?”

 

Seokmin nodded.

 

“Well, I _never_ felt like she was still with me. It just felt like she was gone, that was it. But when I look at the clouds for too long, I remember like, being ten years old and spending hours doing this. And as dumb as it sounds, it kinda does feel like she’s here.”

 

“It’s not dumb. I don’t think so.”

 

Soonyoung rolled over onto his stomach and poked at the stick, still impaled in the ground.

 

“I know it’s not the same, but when my grandma passed away, I felt the same. I wanted to think that good things happening were all her doing. Her way of checking up on me from the other side. She had this little canary she called Nora, and she loved that bird like it was her child.

 

“I always hoped that we’d get a bird like that in the shop, and then we finally did. We were bound to get some yellow bird at some point. But of course, when you consider logic, good things happen no matter what. And then little, more insignificant things. Coincidental stuff that can just happen by chance anyway.”

  

“Like what?”

 

“Like…” Seokmin leaned over to pluck the stick from the dirt and wiped it off between his index finger and thumb. “Like finding a yellow feather in the pocket of my work shirt.”

 

 

 

 

 

After being presented with a sea monkey growing kit from Seokmin, Jun starts to feel worse about the gift he’s about to give to Seungkwan. He’d always kind of wanted to play god without the commitment. Still, he abashedly hands over the meticulously wrapped package. “Please don’t hate me,” he warns.

 

“Why am I going to hate you exactly?” Seungkwan asks slowly, gently shaking the box. “It’s not a human body part or anything, right?”

 

“Uh. Worse…”

 

“Is this a fucking DDR mat?”

 

“Merry Christmas,” Junhui manages, flinching.

 

“Who in the last five years has played DDR?”

 

“Um, me and Soonyoung three weeks ago.”

 

Seungkwan makes a throaty, scandalized sound and drops it in his lap. “Is this a _used_ DDR mat?”

 

“No actually, we still have ours, thanks.”

 

“I have mine, too!” Mingyu volunteers, only to be ignored.

 

Wonwoo turns to both of them with a signature shit-eating grin, and Junhui braces himself for impact. “So what’s the thrilling, sexual story behind this?”

 

“There isn’t one. I just forgot all about this and asked Soonyoung to pick up the gift for me.”

 

Jisoo sits up, face contorted in confusion. “So he got a DDR mat?”

 

“He was taking a _lot_ of allergy medication, alright?”

 

“The kind some people use to make meth with?” Jihoon asks, mimicking Wonwoo’s chin-in-hand interrogation pose.

 

“Listen,” Junhui begins, attempting to mediate. “I will make it up to you, Seungkwan, I promise.”

 

Clicking his tongue, Seungkwan waves him off. “Don’t worry, this just makes my gift look a lot better.” Stowing the DDR mat under the chair, he retrieves a holographic gift bag. “Merry March Christmas, Jihoon.”

 

He takes one look under the tissue paper and sighs, which causes Vernon to burst out laughing. “You should see your face right now,” he wheezes.

 

“No one’s going to want to see your face once I’m done with it, kid.”

 

“Hey, save it for your present,” Seungkwan tells him.

 

Jeonghan swirls the wine in his glass and snorts. “Did you get him a punching bag or something?”

 

Jihoon lifts an obnoxiously colored box out of the bag. “Yes, actually.”

 

As the comically arranged speech bubbles on the outer plastic announce, it’s an inflatable Power Bag that ‘always bounces back,’ intended for children ages five and up.

 

“That’s going to be great for all your pent up rage,” Wonwoo says, pointing to the infographic on the back portraying a little blonde boy Mike Tysoning the hell out of the same model. 

 

 

 

 

 

Always the rebel, Jihoon exchanged his gift early, unbeknownst to everyone, which came as the biggest surprise to Jisoo when he arrived home smelling like Bath and Body Works anthropomorphized and vomited into his hair. On the kitchen counter was a carefully constructed edible arrangement with extra chocolate-covered strawberries, garnished with a sloppily written note.

 

_Keep your half of the New Year’s resolution. -Jihoon_

 

Jisoo was first unsure what this meant, as he’d never actually agreed to any sort of resolution, but after six chocolate-covered strawberries and a stomachache, he understood. The rest of the fruit bouquet went into the fridge, and Jisoo made his way to his bedroom.

 

Propped up on all of the pillows (including the Forstenbaum one), Jeonghan was scanning through a finance textbook when the door opened. “You’re home.”

 

“I am.” Jisoo smiled meekly, pulled off his work polo, and folded it. The plain T-shirt underneath made Jeonghan roll his eyes, but he set his book on the nightstand.

 

“How was work?”

 

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

 

“That awful, huh? Did the crazy Sun-ripened Raspberry lady come back?”

 

He fell back onto his half of the bed, heaving a sigh that could suggest a ‘yes,’ or a ‘much worse.’ “I’d just rather talk about something else, I guess.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like stuff I should have been talking about for a while now, but didn’t.”

 

Jeonghan reached behind his head and handed him a pillow. “This is just in case you need to yell first.”

 

Jisoo took it in both hands and looked up at him. “Thank you,” he said, before thrusting it down over his face and screaming into the cotton fabric of the pillowcase until he ran out of air. Then he screamed once more, until his throat felt raw and empty.

 

Midway through the third scream, Jeonghan shifted his weight, lying down flat beside him, and rested a hand on his shaking chest.

 

“Breathe,” he reminded him.

 

Obediently, Jisoo took a slow breath and loosened the chokehold he had on the edges of the pillow. “So anyways.”

 

“Right.”

 

“I don’t even know where to start. When did I start being the worst person alive?”

 

“For starters,” Jeonghan began, piecing apart Jisoo’s uneven bangs. “You’re not the worst person alive. Wonwoo is, and he’ll fist fight you for that crown. What’s all this about you being the worst person all of a sudden?”

 

“Now there you go. Making _me_ laugh when _I’m_ trying to feel like shit.”

 

 

 

 

 

Keeping his lips sealed, Jihoon suggests that Minghao go next, since he was the first to laugh about the punching bag that will be seeing good use. In the silent alliance they’d established, Jisoo remains atypically calm, leaning against Jeonghan’s shoulder as he unwraps Minghao’s gift: a series of unrelated photographs pasted into a powder pink scrapbook.

 

“My god,” Jeonghan marvels. “Are these what I think they are?”

 

“Irreplaceable family photographs,” Minghao says, nodding. “Stolen from roughly ten different parties.”

 

Some of the pictures are clearly from the era in which the methods for color photography had yet to be developed, with pastel blotches haphazardly arranged on sepia portraits. None of the people in the pictures are recognizable, but they were all real at some point or another. They lived (some maybe still living) lives without knowing their memories would one day end up in a Baby’s First Year scrapbook purchased on clearance at Walmart.

 

Jeonghan hugs it to his chest. “This is the most beautiful gift I’ve received in all my life. But now I feel bad that I just wrote Mingyu a check for the exact amount he paid for Fallout 4.”

 

Seungkwan buries his face in the DDR mat and Mingyu jumps off the couch, cheering. “I can’t believe you got me Fallout 4, Jeonghan, I love you.”

 

Looking a bit broken on the inside, Wonwoo pulls him back down. “You’ve played it through four times, and each time you’ve cried.” He sounds like he’s pleading with god for his life.

 

“Because it’s a beautiful game,” Mingyu says. “Now with sentimental value because Jeonghan got it for me. Sue me.”

 

“I’m glad you love it.” Wonwoo still shoots Jeonghan a look of flimsy disappointment.

 

 

 

 

 

As hard as he tried, Wonwoo was unable to weasel his way out of meeting with his therapist on the coldest day of the month (“Coldest day so far,” Seokmin specified). The Guy—this is what he called him, both in reference and directly to his face—was all booked up until he’d leave for a conference the next week, so it was the day of frozen hell or two weeks later. At least there was always coffee in the lobby, three cups of which he slammed while waiting, knowing very well he’d have to pee halfway through the session.

 

This was a tactic he discovered by accident. Whenever things would get too real, he’d excuse himself to release the golden floodgates. In this time, he’d usually be able to think mid-stream about how he could change the subject, and then do exactly that. But on this particularly frigid day, in addition to the coffee load, he’d thought up several things to bring up.

 

He’d been coming to the same office for so long that the staff stopped directing him where to go. After signing in, he walked down the hall and barged into the third door on the right.

 

“What’s up, Guy?” he asked, tossing his keys on a couch the color of a Best Buy employee’s pants.

 

“Your…” The Guy put on his glasses and peered down at the notes in Wonwoo’s folder. “’crippling anxiety.’”

 

“God, you’re an asshole. I love it.”

 

He closed-mouth smiled at him, closed the folder, and leaned back in his chair. “So how have your nightmares been?”

 

“Dreams,” Wonwoo corrected, for what felt to be the thousandth time. The couch beneath him, as always, felt as though it was stuffed with crumpled newspaper. “They’re just dreams. And they’re fine.”

 

“So you are still having them.”

 

_Damn_.

 

“Listen, they’re not as… frequent as they used to be. That’s a good sign, right?”

 

They were actually not fine, nor had they decreased in frequency. They were starting to involve Mingyu, and they were terrifying. Just the night before, he’d dreamed that he and Mingyu were trapped in his parents’ attic. There was a fire downstairs that burned their feet through the floor, and the window wouldn’t open.

 

“Tell me something, Wonwoo. Why do you lie right to my face when we both know that you’re afraid of something?”

 

“Wow, do I have to piss all of a sudden, one second—“

 

“You speak so openly about things that happen with your friends. You also usually wait until at least the fifteen minute mark to use your bladder as an excuse to leave.” He didn’t look disappointed, even though he had the right.

 

“You’re right, okay? They’re nightmares.”

 

“Tell me about them.”

 

Wonwoo refused to budge. “They fucking suck and I want something to make them stop.”

 

“You said you didn’t want anymore medications. The last round made you nauseous.”

 

“First of all, that was then and this is now. Second of all, I lied. They just killed my sex drive and it was making me sad. Third…”

 

The Guy let out a soft exhale, close to a sigh, but not quite. He understood that Wonwoo construed sighs as signs of dismay, which could undo progress. At the same time, he had to wonder if even after all these years, any progress had been made at all.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s nearly one in the morning, Seungcheol has barely made it through the door, and Mingyu has just handed him a twelve by twelve inch box covered in fuzzy animal stickers. The exchange had been put on hold per Mingyu’s stubbornness to continue without him.

 

“How did you manage to get me _again_?” Seungcheol asks.

 

Jeonghan cracks a grin. “Is it an entire stack of Cat Fancies?”

 

Beside him, Jisoo laughs and sips cocoa made with chocolate syrup. He watches in simultaneous excitement and apprehension as Seungcheol plucks the knife from Chan to get through the layers of tape. “Oh wow, Mingyu.” He does not bother to hide his confusion. “A tub of protein powder?”

 

“You hate it,” Mingyu says meekly.

 

Seungcheol now stuffs down all his questions and beams, patting one of Mingyu’s slumped shoulders. “No, I love protein powder. I’ll eat it straight from the tub, just for you. Thank you.”

 

He turns to Wonwoo and hands him a wrinkled paper bag.

 

“Is this your lunch, Father?” he asks him, unfolding the top.

 

Collapsing on the floor beside Jihoon, Seungcheol groans. “Shut the fuck up and open your present.”

 

“Watch your filthy mouth, it’s Christmas,” Seungkwan scolds.

 

Exhaustion is nipping at the last of Seungcheol’s patience, a rarity under resting conditions. “It’s March. We are literally closer to Easter than we are to Christmas.”

 

“On that note, Happy early Birthday to Zombie Jesus,” Wonwoo jeers, sliding a finger under the strip of tape holding the bag shut. He fishes out a pair of fingerless gloves. “Oh, nice.”

 

“They’re for when you’re outside in the cold smoking.”

 

“I quit doing that like a month ago.”

 

“Yeah, well, just in case you start again.”

 

Wonwoo slips one of the gloves on and grins at him. “The real gift is your undying faith in me, Pops.”

 

“Okay, to be fair, I bought them before I knew you were even trying to quit.”

 

“No, dude, they’re great. Thanks. I owe you a ‘World’s Best Dad’ mug.”

 

Mingyu ejects an animalistic sound and throws his arms up. “That’s what I should have gotten him.”

 

Still reeling, Jihoon looks at him. “A ‘World’s Best Dad’ mug?”

 

“No, one of those Paint Your Own Mug kits so he can make his own.”

 

 

 

 

 

Waiting for the end of chimes from the old grandfather clock in the corner, Jeonghan bit the inside of his cheek, running his tongue over the canker sore he’d just then discovered. He’d probably gotten it from sleeping on his side again. His therapist, sitting opposite him with her fingers occupied by a Rubik’s cube, studied his face.

 

“To answer your question,” he continued. “No, I don’t think I ever really loved anyone before him. What fifteen year old kid is in love?”

 

“You mentioned someone before Jisoo at a different session. From when you were living in Chicago.”

 

“Well I wasn’t in _love_ with him. I just let him fuck me so I could use his family’s pool. And then he moved away and I never saw him again, and I completely forget he even exists until you bring him up.”

 

“Did you ever steal anything from him?”

 

“Yeah.” His voice came out quieter than intended.

 

What he stole was a sweater with their school’s logo on the front, trimmed with varsity stripes along the collar and cuffs. By the time it ended up in his hands, it smelled like Axe body spray and cheap schwag. Jeonghan thought it was ugly as sin, but it was that boy’s favorite. He’d wear it to sporting events to confirm his enrollment and affiliation, despite his proclaimed hatred for the district.

 

“Do you still have it?”

 

“You’re not even going to ask what it was?”

 

She paused. “What did you steal?”

 

“Well, aside from his virginity, a sweater.”

 

“And do you still have this sweater?”

 

“No, I burned it in my dad’s fireplace.”

 

“That sounds like it was very cathartic.”

 

Jeonghan shrugged. “It was pretty cool.”

 

“Now compare this to your situation with Jisoo. Have you stolen anything from him?”

 

“I’d never. How could I even if I wanted to? We live in the same thousand square foot apartment.”

 

She set the Rubik’s cube in her lap and clasped her hands together. “So what did he say after he shouted into the pillow?”

 

“Okay, he didn’t shout, he unleashed hell from his throat.”

 

“Right, then. And what did he tell you?”

 

“California is nice even in winter. And also, he came out to his dad on his death bed.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: i realize it's [july](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christmas_in_July). as usual, this is not proof-read, so apologies for any weirdness. this was written over the course of the last five months and life has been kinda crazy so that's where my head has been. hope y'all are doing well. also this is the penultimate chapter.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> edit: [REDACTED]  
> edit2: i fixed it ignore me.


	13. fragile future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title stolen from Hawthorne Heights' 2008 album of the same name.

“Just because Jihoon doesn’t know the first thing about showing affection, doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.” In his logical mind, Seungcheol realized he should not start an argument right before a twelve hour shift, but it wasn't often that he got the opportunity to talk to Jeonghan sober.

 

“Why are you making this about Jihoon?”

 

Sucking in his bottom lip in favor of biting his tongue, Seungcheol gripped the handle of the mug. “I’m not. It’s about you.”

 

“I’m working on it.”

 

“Are you really, or are you just saying that? Because you’ve been saying it for months. Giving people hope. And then Wonwoo still shows up on that doorstep asking me to help him bring you in because you’re too trashed to walk. The kid’s exhausted, Jeonghan. He’s been through hell and back between his parents and you. You can’t keep doing this to him.”

 

Jeonghan didn’t seem to have a response for that.

 

“You know he doesn’t hold it against you or anything, but—“

 

“No, you’re right.”

 

It fell quiet, save for the last few drops of coffee dripping into the pot.

 

“And you know I don’t hold it against you for it either, right?”

 

Nodding, Jeonghan uncapped the bottle. For a moment, Seungcheol was sure he was about to pound it and bring things back to square one, but he instead turned to the sink and poured the whole fifth down the drain.

 

“I remember all those times, you know?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“All the times Wonwoo brought me home. I remember how he looked at me like, ‘You sad son of a bitch. What the fuck are you doing?’ It felt so bad that I kept doing it so I didn’t have to think about it. Kind of counterintuitive, but.” His voice trailed off as pulled open a cupboard door to throw out the empty bottle. “There’s not much else to say.”

 

“What can I do?”

 

Jeonghan shrugged and kicked out a chair, slumping into it like someone had let all the air out of him.

 

Seungcheol leaned forward. “I’ll do anything, dude, just tell me.”

 

“Who else?”

 

“Who else what?”

 

“Who else do I have to get a grip on this for? Tell me.”

 

In his head, a list formed. Seungcheol gave him an earnest look and scratched at the stubble forming on his chin, contemplating the efficacy of revealing this list that encompassed all of their friends. When he’d decided it was worth a shot, he began.

 

 

 

 

 

“Damn it, Wonwoo already gave his gift,” Seungkwan points out. “This is all because Jihoon can’t just play by the rules.”

 

Still holding the punching bag in his lap, Jihoon sighs. “There are only two people left. Just guess who I had.”

 

Wonwoo narrows his eyes at the last two: Vernon, whose ubiquitous deer in the headlights expression confers nothing, and Jisoo, for once devoid of his usual dithering. Calling upon the many episodes of Detective Conan he was forced to watch with Mingyu, he stands dramatically and faces out the window.

 

“Sherlock Gatsby?” Jeonghan says. “Have you deduced who Jihoon’s recipient was?”

 

“I believe so.”

 

Seungkwan plays along, tapping his chin with his index finger.

 

Turning dramatically, Wonwoo hovers a hand over Vernon’s head and closes his eyes. “It can’t be Vernon because he would have spilled by now.” He dismisses him by pushing his head forward, causing him to spill pale blue Gatorade on the carpet for someone to deal with later.

 

“So it’s Jisoo,” Mingyu comments.

 

“Nothing gets past you, Mingyu,” Jihoon says dryly.

 

Wonwoo, keeping his eyes closed, flips him off sidesteps behind Jisoo. A stubborn strand of hair that won’t quite lie flat brushes against the heel of his hand. “You’ve been awfully calm.”

 

“I am calm.”

 

Dropping the Shinichi Kudo act, Wonwoo ever so slightly tightens his grip and shakes him. “Bullshit, Jihoon picked you. I am the greatest detective of all time.”

 

Jisoo, now caught, rolls his eyes and paws under the couch for his gift, aptly wrapped a Bath and Body Works bag. He places it on Vernon’s knee and reassumes his position on Jeonghan’s right shoulder.

 

 

 

 

 

Vernon celebrated his birthday nursing what he declared, between blowing his nose into reused tissues and whining miserably, to be the flu of the century, the one that would bring him to his knees before Saint Peter. Being affable and having nothing better to do, Minghao took a whack at looking after him, figuring it couldn’t be much worse than the day he spent feeding him Advil and microwaved bacon after Seungkwan’s birthday party. He was wrong, but it wasn’t anything he hadn’t signed up for when he agreed to jump through the hoops university housing set for them to room together.

 

“I got your cough syrup,” he declared, dropping it at the edge of the bed.

 

Sniffling and mewling like a colicky baby, Vernon reached an arm out from under his train comforter and thanked him. “This isn’t the sleepy kind, is it?”

 

“I don’t know. But it’s not grape flavored.”

 

“Good enough for me.” He slugged it straight from the bottle, a good inch off the top, before capping it and tossing it into the mess surrounding him. Said mess consisted of Kleenexes that would need to be incinerated, a heating pad, an ice pack, snowboarding socks, Minghao’s spare comforter, several empty juice containers, and a stuffed dinosaur—a gift from Minghao given just earlier that day.

 

“Are you feeling any better?”

 

Vernon cracked open on eye and groaned. “I think I may die.”

 

“That’s very melodramatic.”

 

“I’m running a brain-cooking fever.”

 

“You haven’t broken a hundred degrees, so I think you’re going to live.”

 

“I can’t believe I’m going to die on my birthday.”

 

Minghao chose to acquiesce, nodding mournfully. “Well, rest in peace, then.”

 

“I will,” he laughed, reaching for his laptop. “Do you want to watch a movie with me? I don’t think I’m contagious.”

 

After the grand time he’d had in CVS, Minghao couldn’t protest, even if it meant two more hours with patient zero. In the middle of the cough syrup aisle, he had come across an old couple bickering about cough drop flavors, and couldn’t help but think that one day, that would be Jisoo and Jeonghan. “What do you feel like watching?”

 

“Whatever comes up on Netflix.”

 

They watched _Requiem for a Dream_ , and by the end of the film, Vernon was having a full-blown cough syrup-fueled meltdown, and not knowing what to do, Minghao turned to Junhui.

 

 

_help me_ v _ernon is crying over jared leto_

_oh cool did he finally go to prison for something_

_no we just watched requiem for a dream_

_nice is that the one about drugs_

_yes. not the point. what do i do._

_idk feel him up or something_

_he has a ‘brain cooking’ fever and has not bathed in days_

_it’s called taking one for the team_

_i should have texted jeonghan_

 

 

_sounds good i told him to tell you to feel him up :)_

 

 

 

 

 

“Aw, you really got me pepperoni,” Vernon marvels, pulling multiple packets of vacuum-sealed pizza toppings from the bag. There seems to be one of every single brand and flavor imaginable.

 

Jisoo nods, looking unusually proud of himself. “I went through the self-checkout so no one would think I’m weird.”

 

“Self-checkout can’t really save you from that,” Seungkwan mutters.

 

Before Jeonghan can protest—“My house is going to smell of salami for _days_.”—Vernon rips open one of the pouches and shoves a five-slice stack into his mouth.

 

Mingyu flinches. “At least make a pizza with them, you monster.”

 

In the background of awe and disgust at how quickly the pouch empties, Jeonghan elbows Jisoo lightly. If Wonwoo got Chan, who got Soonyoung, who got Seokmin, who got Junhui, who got Seungkwan, who got Jihoon, who got Jisoo and ruined the flow of Christmas by forcing Minghao to reveal that he got Jeonghan, who got Mingyu, who got Seungcheol, who got Wonwoo, which led back to Jisoo, who got Vernon… then Vernon got Minghao, who has also now come to this realization.

 

Soonyoung knocks back half a Pyrex measuring cup of coke. “Well, time to give Minghao his gift card.”

 

Mouth still full of pepperoni, Vernon argues, “It’s _not_ a gift card.”

 

And it’s really not, or at least it looks to be too large of a box for a gift card. It’s pitifully wrapped, taped up with shoe size stickers, and roughly the size of a notebook.

 

“Merry Christmas,” Vernon says.

 

Jeonghan digs his fingernails into the heel of his palm to keep himself from doing something obnoxious. All the little alarms in his head want his hands to reach for scraps of wrapping paper to make impromptu confetti and shout, _Vernon has a boyfriend!,_ which would ‘ruin Christmas.’

 

Beneath the double layer of newspaper, Minghao finds a DVD. The title is familiar, but he can’t remember what makes it so.

 

“It’s Sesevenen,” Vernon reminds him. Right, the 1995 crime thriller stylized as Se7en, starring Morgan Freeman and Brad Pitt. Jihoon suggested they watch it after having their souls crushed by _Requiem_ , but then the dorm’s power went out.

 

“Sesevenen actually looks like a good movie,” Wonwoo says, reading the back cover over Minghao’s shoulder.

 

Jeonghan leans over to look. “Does that say Gwyneth Paltrow?”

 

Wonwoo lets out some noise of reproach. “Never mind.”

 

“Now we can watch it,” Vernon explains, giving Wonwoo a round of his own treatment and shoving his head out of the way.

 

Chan makes a face. “Isn’t that movie about a serial killer?”

 

Vernon looks genuinely surprised. “Sesevenen is about a serial killer?”

 

On the very edge of snapping the plastic case in half, Minghao turns to him and finally says, “Vernon, it’s _Seven_.”

 

 

 

 

 

There always seems to be that point in a serious conversation where anything said afterwards is just a repetitive filler statement or a horrible mistake. Seungcheol and Jeonghan reached it in minutes, because despite being close in age and having known one another for years, Jeonghan is emotionally constipated and Seungcheol has never had a way with words. Neither could remember who was the last to speak.

 

"Before we do any more talking about moving," Jeonghan began finally, voice clearing the husk from his throat. "I want to pitch something to you."

 

"Sure."

 

"I think Jisoo and I need to be alone."

 

"I agree."

 

"I don't mean like, go on a romantic vacation and fall in love again. I mean--"

 

"I know what you mean. And I agree.”

 

Jeonghan nodded then, thinking of what to say next. “Of course, we talked about finding a new apartment with two bigger bedrooms, but we also talked about living just the two of us for a while.”

 

“Have you found a place?”

 

“Yeah. A little out of the ways, you know where the BP station is north of campus? Same block. There are hydrangea bushes in the front yard. The house he grew up in had them.”

 

“How’s he holding up?”

 

Everyone else thought of them as the wise and pragmatic elders, the ones who could unerringly face any terrible thing, but there they sat at the table with nothing left of substance to put on it. Jeonghan could have told Seungcheol about the way Jisoo wept when he talked about the last time he saw his father, how he was so far gone that he didn’t hear it, how his mother heard from the doorway and embraced him and cried warm tears into the crook of his neck. But it was too private, too bound to the air of that evening. Instead he grinned. “He’ll be okay. We all will.”

 

 

 

 

 

By 3:00 a.m., Chan had begun to fall asleep, head lolling between Wonwoo and Jeonghan’s shoulders as they continued to talk around him. Intermittent laughter keeps him as close to the conversation as possible.

 

“This is our last Christmas, isn’t it?” Seokmin asks once the noise level falls.

 

Chan lifts his head. “Is it?”

 

“Well, three of us are graduating before next year,” Seungcheol says stiffly. He’d been hoping that they could avoid this conversation a bit longer, preferably after the ceremonies and parties. “And then Chan is off to whatever big time college he needs to solve issues of the world.”

 

“Caltech,” Jeonghan says.

 

Blood rushes to Chan’s face. “How did you know I got in? I was going to keep it secret until—“

 

“You can’t keep anything from me. You should know this by now.”

 

Hesitantly, Junhui and Soonyoung exchange sideways glances, like a couple trying to decide if they really want to go cliff diving when there was a perfectly good, safe beach to walk on. What they know that no one else does, not even Jeonghan, is that Soonyoung applied for a year-long internship in New York back in September, and recently received news that he’d been chosen. Junhui’s reaction started with elation; he dropped the mug he’d been rinsing in the sink to hug around his waist and muss up his hair. And then came the horrible feeling of foreboding, which he gulped down and forbid to show on his face. All the while, Soonyoung paced from the living room to the kitchen, unable to process the good fortune.

 

“Should I say it?” Soonyoung whispers.

 

Wonwoo manages to catch them, glaring over the lip of a beer bottle. “Say what now?”

 

His head turns, having been caught. “Well. I was going to wait until later.”

 

“Why not now?” Wonwoo asks, tipping the bottle towards him. “Now’s good.”

 

“I, um. I got an internship. For next year. I’m going to New York.”

 

Seungkwan holds a hand up. “The state or the city?”

 

“Well, the city is in the state, so I guess both—“

 

“Holy _fuck_ , our boy’s going to NYU.”

 

Vernon carefully reaches around Jihoon to give him a congratulatory slap in the middle of the back. Suddenly shy, Soonyoung buries his face in his hands. “Stop.”

 

Falling to the outer edge of the excitement, Junhui feels like his guts may turn to dust and billow out his mouth if he says a word, so he sits out this dance. When Soonyoung’s clammy hand searches for his, he meets him halfway.

 

 

 

 

 

Shaking from the cold, Wonwoo tried his best to not make too much noise when he returned home. He tossed his jacket on the couch (because Jeonghan didn’t live there and thus couldn’t tell him to do otherwise) and walked slowly to the bedroom. Mingyu had been trying to sleep late after Game Stop had him do overnight stock work. For a few minutes, he watched him from the open doorway, ungracefully splayed across the bed like a dead starfish, and when he turned to go back out, his shoulder hit the doorframe, rousing him.

 

“Sorry,” Wonwoo hissed, rubbing the spot where a bruise would surely appear.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Watching you sleep. Like a murderer.”

 

“Oh.” He rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

 

“Early. Go back to sleep.”

 

“I was having a really cool dream.”

 

“Great. Was it about me waking you up by accident and then telling you to go back to sleep?”

 

Mingyu laughed and scooted to one side out of habit, not explicitly inviting, but still expecting him to join him. “I don’t remember, I just know it was good. Don’t you hate that? When you can’t remember your dreams?”

 

The Guy had advised him to begin talking about the nightmares, bring them into the real world to make them make sense. But Wonwoo wasn’t sure if he could, or if he ever would. Mingyu had been through enough of his hauntings. He’d seen the reasons why this happened, he just didn’t know that Wonwoo had gotten into the habit of feigning sleep for hours and then going for walks at two in the morning. He didn’t need to know the gory details.

 

“You look tired,” Mingyu commented. “You should be going back to sleep.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“I don’t know how heavy you think I sleep, but I know you get up at night.”

 

“I sleep just fine.”

 

“You need to see a doctor.”

 

“I’m seeing a doctor.”

 

“The Guy?”

 

“Yeah, that jackass.”

 

“But did you tell him you can’t sleep?”

 

“It’s not that I can’t sleep, it’s that I don’t want to.”

 

Confused, Mingyu grabbed his face to make him look him in the eyes. “Why don’t you want to sleep?”

 

“Drop it.”

 

“I’m not a dog, don’t tell me to drop it. I’m your boyfriend, you can tell me anything.”

 

He took a breath and shook Mingyu’s thumb off his chin. “It’s stupid.”

 

“But I want to help you.”

 

“Damn it, dude, don’t you think you’ve helped me enough? I’m alive because of you. You don’t need to know about every fucked up, shitty thing that happens to me. I’m fine. I’m taking care of it.”

 

“It’s nightmares, isn’t it?”

 

“How did you know?”

 

Mingyu pulled the pillow close to his chest, and Wonwoo wondered if it was to comfort himself or to keep a safe space between them. “I heard you talking in your sleep once.”

 

Wonwoo said nothing, staring at the doorway. If it was just four inches wider, he wouldn’t have bumped into it. If he had listened to The Guy and filled the prescription for Ativan, he would have slept for all those empty hours. If one of his parents had been ten minutes late to the concert they met outside of, he wouldn’t have been born. All these ifs swirled around his head, weighing on the soft grey matter of his brain. He didn’t realize his eyes had welled up until Mingyu reached for them with the calloused pads of his fingers.

 

He looked down at him, noticing that the pillow had been tossed to the side. “Are you okay?” Mingyu asked.

 

“Yeah, of course.”

 

“Then why are you crying?”

 

He pressed his tongue against the back of his bottom teeth and pushed a few greasy strands of hair from Mingyu’s face, shrugging weakly. “You make me so happy,” he said finally, like a deathbed confession. 

 

 

 

 

 

As they leave, Minghao spots Jeonghan gingerly placing the album of stolen photographs on the coffee table. He turns back to Vernon, who has tucked his chin under the collar of his jacket. They get into Minghao’s car as quietly as they can. Vernon pulls the handle at the same time Minghao presses the unlock button twice in a row, and only out of the goodness of his heart does Minghao not drive away without him. Vernon is atypically quiet, looking out the window instead of diverging on moon landing conspiracy theories. He’s probably tired.

 

“Hey,” Minghao says at a red light.

 

He turns. “Yeah?”

 

“Do you want to move out together next year?”

 

“What do you mean?” Vernon asks, somehow sounding like the question was a tough one.

 

“Like live together again, but not in the dorms.”

 

Vernon’s brows furrow together. “Like with our parents?”

 

“Do you really want to live with my or your parents?”

 

“N…No,” he says. The light turns green and they move forward. “Oh, like in an apartment?”

 

Minghao sighs. “Yes, like an apartment. Not the dorms and not our parents’ houses. Do you want to?”

 

Even though it’s cold, and the heat is turned up as high as it can go, Vernon pushes down the passenger window. The wind feels like an electric shock against their cheeks. “I’d follow you into hell or my parents house any day of the week.”

 

 

 

 

 

**______**

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: thank you for again waiting all these months and months. though it may seem unfinished, this is really the last chapter. an epilogue will come eventually, but i don't know when, so i'll make my goodbye spiel here now: 
> 
> i began this story almost three years ago with my best friend, just for fun to distract ourselves from the misery of our lives back then. it was our very first full-blown au and it's very near and dear to my heart. when i started posting, i hadn't written anything in years (and i'm sure it shows, god, don't re-read the first like 3 chapters unless you wanna be embarrassed for me), so i really didn't think anyone would read it. i sincerely appreciate everyone who's read, whether or not you've ever commented or talked to me on twitter. special thanks to those of you who have been here since chapter one. well anyways, i guess you could say this is an announcement of my ~retirement~ from seventeen ficdom.
> 
> thank you again. ♡


End file.
